


Lifetime Commitment

by cadesama



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Big Bang Challenge, Case Fic, F/M, Past Relationship(s), Superpowers, Uncle/Niece Incest, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-02
Updated: 2012-04-13
Packaged: 2017-11-03 15:08:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 46,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/382775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadesama/pseuds/cadesama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Completing her freshman year of NYU has left Claire feeling stifled by normalcy. Meanwhile, recovering from his latest power meltdown has left Peter emotionally devastated and withdrawn. When Angela arranges to get them back into the game, they know there's more to it than sending them undercover to deal with a dehydrating villain preying on New York's elite. More to it than the marriage license they have to sign, even.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers through S2 with references to the comics, particularly #43-46 "Golden Handshake". I took some liberties with the villain of those comics, who is ambiguously named Rollo Fusor, Rollo Fusor's accomplice, and Anya. For the sake of this fic, she's Anya Fusor.

"Fuck you, too!" Claire snapped, slamming her hand down on the hood of the taxi that had come centimeters away from grotesquely fracturing the tibia and fibula of her right leg – which not only would have ruined her new jeans, but would also have made her even later than she already was. Mohinder did tend to give her _leeway_ , but she didn't really want to lean on that. Family connections, world saving, and a little casual threatening with a handgun may have bought her an internship at the Company as his lab assistant, but she did want to learn from him. And that was best done when she wasn't reminding him of exactly why it was that he let so much slide.

Interestingly, attempting to take revenge on the man who shot your father in the face – no matter how much, objectively speaking, your father deserved it – often resulted in lingering tension.

Juggling the lattes and croissants that would have been the taxi's real victims, Claire waded upstream through the Reed St. pedestrian rush. Facing this kind of crowd, she briefly let herself wish that she were back in the comfort of Odessa, where good Texan courtesy would have prevented the elbowing she was experiencing. Hell, she'd even settle for Costa Verde, where Californian personal injury lawyers did much the same.

Thankfully, the crowd parted just long enough for Claire to dart into the entranceway of the building she was headed to, finally escaping the sticky heat of late spring in New York City. Mounting the stairs to the laboratory-nee-art studio, Claire mused on other means of bypassing ingrained New York rudeness. Maybe if she had a more useful power. Like teleportation. Or six arms to elbow back with. Jesus, what was she going to use immortality for anyway?

One frighteningly unsafe looking elevator ride and two dingy staircases later, Claire passed in front of the hall windows of the loft. Mohinder, hunched over his laptop, was visible inside. So was Maya. As the Company's third favorite means of mass destruction, Mohinder had been working extensively with Maya to study her ability and isolate the toxic biological agents for over two years now.

Claire tapped lightly on the glass of the door; Maya glanced up and flashed her typical wide grin at Claire. Mohinder – preoccupied as usual – would have to suffer the consequences.

Dropping her keys on the table near the door, Claire slung her messenger bag across her shoulders, and crossed the ever more scuffed depiction of Peter's explosion to join Maya. Silently, she handed off a latte to the older woman before focusing her attention on Mohinder's research. Eyes darting over the data patterns she couldn't quite parse, but that he nonetheless was skimming through effortlessly, Claire asked conversationally, "Any progress?"

As expected, Mohinder jerked, and spun his stool away violently. Okay, so she didn't want to lean on Mohinder's continuing apprehension toward her. That didn't mean she couldn't get a small – yet vicious – thrill out of teasing him in these little ways.

Refocusing on her, Mohinder glared. "Claire."

"Good morning, Doctor. Would you like a latte?" she asked innocently.

Maya, not entirely practiced at games of subterfuge, even after years with the Company, laughed.

"Oh, Doctor Suresh," she began, and a flicker of appreciation of just how Maya pronounced his name melted the glare from Mohinder's face. "You really should be more careful. What if it had not been Claire? What if it had been," an earnest, angry look overtook her beautiful features, "What if it had been _Sylar_?"

Mohinder chuckled and looked at her affectionately. "I don't think my situation is quite that dire, yet. Besides, isn't that why you are here?"

Claire quietly rolled her eyes, and handed off his latte and croissant. Mohinder momentarily stopped making eyes at Maya to take them, frowned, and looked back.

"What? You wanted a mocha?"

"Why are you here?"

"I... work here."

"Today is the twentieth," he reminded her, enunciating carefully for the slow. "You have a meeting with Bob and Angela today. At the Kirby building."

"... Did I know this?" Claire very honestly couldn't recall a thing about it. Coming up on finals – on finals that she cared about and that meant something to her future, anyway – she tended to lose time. And not in the fun, Hiro-sponsored way.

Maya nodded decisively. "Yes. Mrs. Petrelli called when you were here,"she explained, her accent rounding the words. "You told Doctor Suresh and wrote it down in your pink planner for days."

Claire rummaged through her bag and found that Maya was right. Great. She was senile at and late for a meeting with her _grandmother_. Luckily, there was a solution. Circled, in sparkly pink ink, was the name of the other attendee for the meeting: Peter. The fact that they were both supposed to be there was interesting, enough so to make Claire pause between pulling out her phone and hitting speed dial three. Given recent events, it had been a long time since anyone at the Company or elsewhere had trusted Peter.

What changed Angela's mind? And why was she dragging her erstwhile granddaughter into it?

Shrugging, Claire hit the number three and waited while the phones connected.

"What?" answered an irritable voice.

"Nathan?" Claire asked.

The voice sighed. "No. It's me. Claire, where are you?"

"I'm great, actually. How are you?"she smarmed back. "I'm at Mohinder's lab. Obviously."

"Right."

The connection beeped closed and Peter appeared before her. He looked good, in a consumptive kind of way. He was washed out and dark circles outlined his eyes, but his long hair had been washed recently and he was wearing clean, if darkly colored, well-fitting clothes. He seemed to be recovering.

In the past, when Peter teleported Claire somewhere, he would take her by the hand or wrap an arm around her shoulders. But this time, almost hesitantly, he simply grasped her elbow; then he rewrote space and time around that touch.

Claire always tried to perceive the moment when somewhere or somewhen became a different time/place altogether, but it was impossible. It wasn't a matter of blinking and missing it. Eyes open, straining to see that shift, she still lived in moments, not moments between. She would never see what Peter or Hiro saw.

Then they were in the executive office of the Kirby building. It was as expansive and austerely outfitted as ever, the high ceiling and expensive furnishings kept in much the same order Linderman had kept them in. Angela sat primly on the couch, trying to give off an air of intimacy, while Bob paced somewhat fretfully behind her. He really did not do well when left alone with her.

Noticing them, he straightened and went to greet them, "Ah, Claire. How good to see you, again. I'm afraid we had a miscommunication about the time of this meeting."

Angela looked up from an examination of her manicure to smile frostily at her. "I'm glad you could make it, dear. It's been a long time since I've seen you. It seems that your studies have you quite overwhelmed."

Claire bristled and crossed her arms defiantly. "My studies are _not_ overwhelming me."

This was the moment when Peter's restraining touch on her arm would come, reminding her that no matter how many times Angela tried to end the world, she was family. She waited a beat. It didn't come. Disturbed, her next, very rude words stuck in her mouth.

Her grandmother, as usual, took advantage of her momentary faltering to conclude, "Then you have spare time."

Bob guided Claire to sit. He picked up a manila folder from the coffee table, and thrust it at her before resuming his pacing.

"As Angela was saying... We're glad that we can count on you for this very important mission, Claire. Now, Peter has already been briefed," Claire glanced over to where Peter was slouching on the couch; she hadn't even noticed him move over there. "So, he can fill you in on further details. We want you to be as comfortable with this as you possibly can be, so if you have _any_ questions, don't worry at all about asking."

"But," her grandmother cut in, "this mission is time sensitive. We need you to get working right away."

Claire shrugged. Her finals were finished. All she was doing now was tweaking the citations on her last paper before e-mailing it in and doing coffee runs for Mohinder. And beyond that, lately she'd been falling into a sense of crushing _normalcy_ , feeling helplessly stifled by the mudanity of her goals. Shaking up her routine, actually using her ability for some good instead of an excuse not to buy a colander, was certainly not something she would be turning down this century.

"Okay, then, what is it?"

Bob glanced over to Peter, as if expecting him to chime in to persuade Claire about something. Peter, however, remained slumped on the plush, leather couch, staring at a piece of paper on the coffee table. Angela, for her part, was watching Peter – looking progressively more satisfied.

"Claire, do you remember a man named Claude Raines?" Claire snapped her attention from the strange Petrelli interplay, and back to Bob. Her memories of "Uncle Claude" seemed odd and slightly unfamiliar, now that she knew he was both her father's old partner for bagging and tagging specials and that he had once thrown Peter off a building in a fit of pique. Trying to recall his role in her childhood always led to the discomfiting sensation that her life was a game she hadn't been told the rules for.

She nodded, and Bob continued, "Before he became Noah Bennet's partner, he worked in the Parisian devision with a man named Haram. Their final case together was tracking a serial killer by the name of Anya Fusor."

He stopped pacing long enough to reach out, and flip the manila folder in her lap open. The first sheet was a typical mission report, with a bad quality, black and white photograph pinned to it. A woman, hollow eyed, sharp-jawed and yet smooth skinned, looked back at her.

"She, and her partner, seduced and murdered their way through French high society for over ten years. However, she apparently held no loyalty for her partner. When Claude and Haram caught up with her, in 1990, she murdered her partner as a distraction to get away.

"Finally, when Haram was not able to contain Fusor, he got her to turn her power on herself, killing her."

Claire blinked in surprise. She hadn't ever heard of anyone being vulnerable to their own ability before. That's how her own bio-mom had survived the fire Claire was supposed to have died in.

"So... what was her power?"

"Dehydration," Bob said blandly. "To the point of disintegration. She somehow absorbed or fed off of the water she drained, keeping her youthful appearance."

As exciting as all this back story wasn't, Claire wondered exactly what it had to do with her. "Okay. And the mission is...?"

He nodded at the case file in her lap, "Page four. Her daughter."

A much sharper, color photograph of a harshly attractive young woman was pinned next to a report that Claire's high school French recognized as a surveillance log. The date was recent, and the text indicated some sort of extravagant function at a châteaux.

"Like mother, like daughter. Clémence Fusor has also been targeting high society. Working alone, she goes after newlywed couples, stalking them for weeks at a time before kidnapping, and eventually killing them."

"Four months ago," said Angela, picking up the story and finally looking away from her intense study of her son. "René's operatives had a chance to capture Fusor, but lost track of her. She eventually resurfaced on the North Shore."

"Page seven, Claire," Bob instructed, and Claire dutifully obeyed. That page held a piece of very stiff, very fine paper elaborated with personalized calligraphy. It was an invitation to a party. "As you can see, on the next page, she has already killed here. Alana and Julian Andres were perfect victims for her. They liked to travel impulsively, making their disappearances are easy to account for. The Holverwells, Grace and Marc, just went on a holiday to Bimini."

Claire turned another page. Grace and Marc seemed young, only a few years older than Claire, preserved by arrogance and money. Both were throughly coiffed, giving stilted smiles to the camera. "Current information leads us to believe that they are both alive, and probably being held within their own home. We need _you_ and Peter to get Fusor's attention, keep her from moving on to new victims or leaving the North Shore altogether."

"Why us?" Claire asked.

"She's more selective this time," Peter broke in. Startled, her eyes snapped to his. They were shuttered, lonely. "She's only going after members of the Social Register."

"I don't know what that means," she said, holding his gaze.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Angela straighten, clearly ready to finally get down to the meat of the issue. She motioned to Bob, and he moved out of Claire's peripheral vision. Claire heard him pick up the telephone receiver on the desk and ask for someone to enter over the intercom.

Peter leaned forward, sliding partially off the couch, to take her hand. "You don't have to do this, Claire."

" You don't," Bob interrupted. "But you _are_ the two people least likely to disintegrate. And Peter is the only unmarried person affiliated with the Company on the Social Register."

Claire frowned, "So, wait. How am I going to get on the Social Register, then? And what even _is_ it?"

"It's simply a list of all the well bred families of this country, dear," Angela said dismissively. "And–" The door clicked open, interrupting her. A sharply dressed, but very nervous man entered the room carrying a briefcase. Between the man, Bob and Angela's own suits, and Peter's typical clean lines, Claire was beginning to feel a little under-dressed in her jeans and NYU t-shirt. Angela smiled at the man, and finished her thought, "And we are going to take care of that problem right now."

The man motioned to Peter and Claire. "These two are the applicants?"

Angela and Bob nodded. Peter looked again at the paper on the table, before quietly affirming, "Yes."

"I guess that makes you my sponsor, huh?" Claire grinned at him.

Peter smiled at her slightly. "It does."

Without looking at either of them, the man sat down on the couch next to Peter and opened his briefcase. He took out an embossing stamp and an official looking form, and looked to Angela.

"You have their birth certificates?"

"Of course." Another manila folder, one Claire had not noticed, was retrieved from the desk and handed to the man. He took it gingerly, sighing with self-loathing as he put the file into his brief case. He paused a moment, and closed his eyes.

When he opened his eyes, a deep blue color, he fixed Claire with a penetrating look. "You are Miss Claire Bennet, correct?"

Claire nodded, amused by the self-importance of America's elite. "Yes, I am."

He turned to Peter, "And you are Peter Petrelli?"

"Yes."

"Being that you are both over the age of eighteen, I can move to waive the twenty four hour waiting period, if you wish it."

Claire shrugged, glancing at Peter. Angela said the mission was time sensitive. "Sure. I mean, yes, we would like that."

The look of self-loathing made another, brief appearance. The man glared ferociously down at his papers, and shook it off.

"Then I need for both of you to sign the contract you have between you, and I will waive the waiting period and officiate."

Startling Claire with the sudden movement, Angela presented Claire with a black lacquered fountain pen.

Winking at Peter, who stared, and then swore softly to himself, Claire leaned over the table and signed – excessive curlicues absent for once. Leaning back, she flipped the pen in her hand and offered it to Peter.

He hesitated. Angela circled around from behind Claire to stand behind Peter. She leaned down, hands grasping Peter's shoulders, and whispered something into his ear. Straining, Claire thought she could make out, "... what you've always wanted."

Jerkily, he nodded, leaned over. And signed.

Working swiftly, the man took the contract from then, added his own signature, and embossed it with the press. Then he signed the waiver and embossed it.

Finally, he asked, "Do you affirm that you are aware of the nature of the contract that you have entered into and have done so willingly, without any coercion by outside parties?"

This was all beginning to sound rather ominous. Nonetheless, Claire had only one answer "Yes."

Again, Peter hesitated, and Angela's grip on his shoulder tightened. Hoarsely, he said, "Yes."

The man drew himself up, finally looking like an official of the law rather than a cowed toady. "Then, by the power vested in me by the great state of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife."

All of the oxygen that had ever entered Claire's lungs, bloodstream, or general vicinity disappeared in a single instant.

The judge glanced between Peter and Claire, confused. "If you want, you _can_ kiss."

Claire shook her head, trying to rid it of the ringing that filled it. She opened her mouth and closed it and then opened it again.

"Wait. _What?_ "


	2. Chapter 2

"I'm married to Peter," Claire muttered indistinctly into her comforter as she attempted to smother herself. It was floral and warm, with a ridiculously high thread count and would leave her a pretty corpse. She couldn't think of a better way to die.   
  
Too bad it wouldn't stick.  
  
"You can't be married to Peter. He's your uncle," May reminded her, briskly moving about the room.  _Packing_ .  
  
"I'm married to my uncle."  
  
The giant teak wardrobe Nathan had given them creaked as May opened it. She shoved her own hangers to the side and lifted Claire's out in one huge armload. Methodically, she removed the hangers one by one and tossed them into a pile where they clicked against the hardwood floor.  
  
May contradicted Claire, "You can't be married to your uncle. That's incest. And illegal."  
  
"Oh God," Claire moaned, clutching the comforter tighter – a comforter, incidentally, that Nathan had also bought. He, and one of Heidi's favorite interior designers, had outfitted their entire apartment, turning a mildewy, cramped Brooklyn rattrap into an elegant, singularly beautiful rattrap. Wall paper was stripped and plaster scored down to the surprisingly interesting red stonework; drab white and hospital green painted over with autumnal colors, accented with tasteful cream curtains. Every special occasion – birthday, holiday, or grade report – was met with another expensive piece of furniture from her biological father.  
  
Nathan was still most comfortable displaying affection via charge card or overbearing criticism, and they were truly the only forms of parenting that Dad would stand for. Nevertheless, it was Noah Bennet's name on the lease of the apartment, not Nathan's, because any permanent seeming commitment tended to get his ire up.  
  
Permanent commitment. " _Oh God._  Dad's going to kill me."  
  
"Hey." The clatter of falling hangers halted and the bed dipped down next to Claire's side. One of May's artful hands reached out, stroking Claire's curls aside to gently touch her cheek. "It's just a mission. It's not real. Your Dad will totally get that."  
  
Claire managed a half smile, and leaned into the touch a little. She resolved herself to making sure there was no way in hell Noah found out about this mission, saying, "You really don't know my Dad very well."  
  
"I know that the only thing more important to him than the mission is you – so hey, twofer!" May grinned, and her dark hair fell attractively into her eyes. "You're on a mission, which is good for the world, and you will be  _good_  at the mission, which is good for you. You  _always_  say that you don't know what to do with yourself when you aren't helping."  
  
Without noticing, May's hand had gone from merely touching Claire, to cradling her jaw. Her fingers stroked across Claire's pulse, suddenly leaving Claire breathless.  
  
As if jolted, May pulled back.  
  
Some people would say that continuing to live with your ex-girlfriend after she dumped you because, in her words, "You're just working out all your Elle-and-Peter issues on me," would be awkward.  
  
Those people would be right.  
  
Both of Claire's fathers had been surprisingly amenable to the girls living together for college. Of course, their reasoning had far more to do with Claire's inability to remain uninjured for three days straight than with their feelings toward her relationship with May. It was simply safer for her secrecy, they said, if she lived with someone who already knew about her ability.  
  
And, she was fairly sure, neither believed Claire and May ever did more than cuddle.  
  
Disappointed and put out, Claire slid from the bed, and resumed May's packing efforts. Folding cardigans was calming, as long as she didn't think of exactly where they, and she, would be going. It was hard to tell how much in the way of clothing she would actually need – and knowing Angela, her entire wardrobe would probably be dismissed as inappropriate for the role she was playing, anyway – but the last thing Peter had told her to do when he dropped her off was to pack. There was certainly nothing else she could do to prepare.  
  
Out of the corner of her eyes, Claire saw May fumble toward the bedside table, snagging Claire's pink iPhone with her fingertips. She fiddled with it momentarily.  
  
"Okay," she started weakly. May cleared her throat, and tried again. "Okay. I can prove it to you. According to the New York City Marriage Bureau you have to appear in person at the Bureau to apply to get married and must 'list various personal details such as their name, address, and birth place, date of birth, social security number, and marital history and make a sworn statement that there are no legal impediments to the marriage.'"  
  
Claire stopped her maniacal folding. "We didn't do  _any_  of that."   
  
"See, I told you! And I Googled it, so it must be true!"  
  
Breathing easily for the first time since she'd left the Kirby building, Claire casually stuffed the blouse she was folding in her bag, and crawled onto the bed to hug her friend. This was good. This was really, really good. The meeting had just been half mission prep and half crazy mind games from Angela. That she could deal with.  
  
Considerably cheered now that Claire wasn't quite so emo – all too often May's mood depended on the moods of people around her – May joked, "It probably wouldn't be a real problem anyway, you know. Your Dad has always liked Peter. I bet he'd think he's a great son-in-law."  
  
Claire glared balefully at her. "Too soon, May."  
  
  
  
Hours later, a significant portion of the apartment had been packed away. Looking around the now bare space, seeing the places that she no longer filled in, Claire couldn't help but feel anxiety tightening along her nerves. Her fingers twisted into the long hem of her shirt.  
  
Peter's sharp rap on the door startled Claire from her seat on her four somewhat overstuffed bags. Stumbling, she kicked one over. As she was righting it, another knock came at the door, and May poked her head out from the bedroom.  
  
Grinning, she darted toward the door. "I'll get it!"  
  
Twisting to stop May, Claire knocked over another bag and before she knew it, May was greeting Peter, hands fisted behind her as she rocked back on her heels in mischievous glee.  
  
"Hi, Peter," May crooned.  
  
Forgoing righting the other bag, Claire straightened to wave at him. He didn't seem to see her at first, instead looking rather nonplussed at May's enthusiasm. Peter looked much the same as during the – her minded tried to shy away from the word –  _wedding_ . Clean cut, only slightly brooding. And yet, there was an added look in his eyes since the morning. Apprehension, or maybe guilt. It tightened his features, making him look as tense as Claire felt.  
  
"It's good to see you, May," he said quietly. He caught Claire's eye over May's shoulder, and sent her a questioning look. She shrugged back helplessly. Since this morning, it had become clear that May found this entire situation hysterical, and, equally clearly, nothing Claire did would dissuade her from seeking her fun.  
  
"So, I heard the news from Claire. I always hoped you two crazy kids would work it out," she said, adding a wink at the end.  
  
Peter ducked his head, and forced a smile. "Thank you. I'm glad to hear at least one person is happy for us. You wouldn't believe the rants my mother has been making me endure every time I pick up the phone."  
  
Claire's eyebrows climbed toward her hair line. "Really?" she asked. "She didn't seem angry at all when I saw her."  
  
Peter laughed without humor – a harsh sound that Claire hated, no matter the context – and walked in from the hallway, closing the door behind him. "Trust me," he said, locking eyes with her. "I just know that she spent every moment she wasn't talking to me raging to her society friends about how her youngest ran off with some 'blonde trollop' he met on his 'search for spiritual enlightenment.'"  
  
 _Oh_ , Claire thought.   
  
"Great. Now everyone will be talking about us," she said, flatly.  
  
Peter nodded and sighed in sympathy. He stepped closer, intimately so, and brushed the back of his hand against her cheek. Claire shivered under his touch. Over the past several months, she'd gotten used to the new, closed off Peter. The one who didn't call and didn't laugh and, above all, didn't touch. Even the brief sensation of his skin against hers was now as surprising as it was once familiar and welcome.  
  
"I've been through this before – the stares, the disapproval, the whispers that follow you everywhere. And it gets to you, because it follows you home, even when you try to shake it. But..." Here he smiled a genuine smile, "I know you're strong enough to make it through this, Claire."  
  
Playing along, Claire nudged him. "Hey, I'm not the only one."  
  
"Right," May interjected, and the pair turned to look at her, still standing close enough to embrace. "Yeah. Everyone here is real strong. Because being strong in our own homes, when no one is watching is important?" she added, ending on a bemused note.  
  
"Always," Peter replied.  
  
" O...kay. So!" putting her hands on her hips, May switched tacks in her continuing quest to milk  _some_  enjoyment from the situation. "I've heard so much about the wedding, and obviously about  _you_ , Peter, but I hadn't heard about your 'search for spiritual enlightenment.' That sounds  _intense_ . Where exactly did you meet?"  
  
"Thailand," he answered easily. "I'm surprised she didn't tell you the story."  
  
"So am I," May said with mock sadness. "Sometimes I just feel that we're drifting apart."  
  
Scowling, Claire left Peter's side to smack May on the arm. May pouted.  
  
"You never send me roses anymore?" she tried.  
  
Shaking her head, Claire smiled, "That's better done at a distance, anyway." Fiercely, she pulled May into a hug. "I'm going to miss you."  
  
Behind her, she heard Peter hefting the weight of her bags – without powers, of course. Niki's wasn't one he dared tap, nor was Sylar's.  
  
May kissed Claire's cheek, and then pulled back to hold her by the arms.   
  
"I'll miss you, too. Enough that I  _might_  be persuaded to visit your swank beach house."  
  
"We'll fix it up for you," Claire promised, loathe to let go. Emotion seized her heart. Despite all of May's assurances – despite laws of men, morality, and New York state – this was a real goodbye.   
  
"Claire," Peter beckoned softly, laden with three of her bags, one in each hand and one slung across his shoulders.  
  
Suddenly anxious and scared and afraid, Claire wiped away escaping tears. "I'll call you tonight."  
  
" Yeah.  _You will_ ," May affirmed, letting Claire go and pushing her away slightly.  
  
Sniffling, Claire collected her remaining bag, and joined Peter by the door.  
  
"We'd love to have you over some time, May. We'll have to call and set that up," said Peter.  
  
Nodding, May said, "I'll talk to you later, then."  
  
"Later," Claire said, hugging herself.  
  
They turned to leave, the sound of the door creaking closed playing painfully up Claire's spine. Then, abruptly, it stopped. Claire turned to glance back just as May called out, "Before I forget, have fun saving the world... _in bed_ ."  
  
The hand clutching the shoulder strap of her bag convulsed, and Claire's tears were momentarily overwhelmed by a guilty laugh.  
  
"Still not funny!" she shouted back, but May had already closed the door, leaving Claire and Peter alone in the stuffy hallway, awkwardly avoiding eye contact with each other.  
  
Silently, they made their way down to the street level. Instead of a rental, as she had expected, one of the family town cars -- discreet, unfamiliar driver included --  greeted her.   
  
"Gleason," Peter acknowledged with a short nod, handing the bags off. The driver, a broad, balding man with a solemn face, nodded back, and offered Claire a cordial look before packing the bags away.  
  
Opening the backseat door, Peter guided Claire inside. Like most Petrelli family cars, the interior was plain, but expensive leather. Scooting across, her hip bumped into an opulent, cherry wood box, topped with a pair of manila folders.  
  
"Sorry about that," Peter said stiffly, edging as far as humanly possible away from Claire on the backseat bench.  
  
Stung, Claire wrapped her arms around herself. "Yeah, I get it. We're always on the job."  
  
"And we need to establish our cover quickly," he said, looking out the window. "Fusor has already taken two couples. A third one is probably already pushing it, so she'll definitely move on after. We  _have_  to be her next target."  
  
"Peter?" Claire asked, trying to get him to look at her. She saw the muscles in his jaw flex as he willed himself to stay distant, and waited for him to give in to her as he always did.  
  
"Peter?" she asked again softly, and this time he forgot about his stoicism and looked at her, hazel eyes slightly afraid.  
  
Scooting down the bench, Claire forcibly wrapped his arm around her shoulders. He didn't struggle, but she kept one hand clamped firmly on his forearm, keeping it in place. Incrementally, she felt him relax into the pose.  
  
She titled her face up to examine his, saw the silent question  _why?_  forming in his eyes. Heart constricting painfully, she lied, "We have to establish our cover."  
  
A disappointed yet relieved light flickered in his eyes. He didn't move his arm.  
  
" So," Claire began, deciding to avoid the issue, "why can we talk  _now_ ? What, chauffeurs never gossip? And why not just teleport over?"  
  
"Appearances. And no, not if they work for my mother, they don't," he replied, tone lightening as he silently consented to the change of topic. "You've clearly never read the staff contract for family employees."  
  
"No, actually, I haven't. And speaking of contracts that I haven't read." She kicked him. "What the hell was all of that about? It's not like any of those hoity toity society biddies are going to demand to see our marriage license."  
  
Peter fumbled for a moment, searching for a justification. Finally, he sighed, "You'd be surprised. Honestly, we just need it to be on file. The Social Register is an actual book, not just a concept."  
  
Slumping against him, she grumbled, "Still. You could have warned me about Angela's mind games. I would have signed it even if I knew what it was."  
  
She felt him move, turning his head to stare at her. His breath stirred her hair. "You went to a meeting with my mother and  _didn't_  expect mind games?"  
  
Put that way, it did make her sound a bit dim. Without moving, Claire snagged the case files with her fingertips. "So what's the plan?"  
  
Peter brought a hand up to her eye line, and ticked off the points one by one on his long fingers, "Get married. Nervous breakdown. Move to Nassau. Make our big debut. Get stalked. Catch the bad guy, hopefully with minimal disintegrations."  
  
"Is the nervous breakdown part optional?" Claire asked hopefully.  
  
"I don't know, was it?"  
  
 Well, I didn't  _actually_  suffocate myself earlier."  
  
"I hear that's a bad way to go." Hearing an unwelcome note of pensiveness, Claire repositioned herself to look at him. Peter's gaze had drifted to the tinted windows of the town car, watching barely visible buildings pass as they left the city.  
  
 _Really? Talk to Elle lately?_  she didn't say.  _Too soon_ . Too soon for jokes about choking girlfriends, even if it wasn't really him, and marriage, even if it wasn't real, period.  
  
Distracting herself, Claire flipped the first file open. Instead of the dossier on Fusor she expected to see, she found herself looking at pictures of herself and Peter. Dozens of pictures of them laughing, lounging on a beach, showing off their glinting rings in the purple-red light of a tropical sunset.  
  
"Wedding photos," Peter said, breaking into her thoughts.  
  
Claire's fingers traced over the light blue sundress she wore in the picture of their vows. "How?"  
  
"René in Paris. One of his operatives is a psychic photographer. Mom had him whip these up before she talked to us."  
  
She looked away from the pictures briefly to smile at Peter. "So we met in Thailand?"  
  
He nodded, and Claire settled comfortably against him as he began to explain their romantic back story.   
  
"Claire Bennet is the kind of conscientious, new money sorority girl who splits her vacation time between partying at beach wide raves in Thailand and building houses for charity in the villages," Peter recited.  
  
"New money?" Claire asked.  
  
"Out west. And bear in mind," he added, before she could pout about disliking her California cover story. "To these people, 'out west' is anything beyond Pennsylvania."  
  
"So who are you in all this?"  
  
Claire felt him shrug slightly against her. "I'm Peter. Troubled son of the somewhat scary Petrelli family, who has been battling depression for a few years now and keeps dropping off the planet every couple of months.  
  
"I was volunteering as a nurse in one of the villages you built a house in. We passed by each other a few times without noticing, and then you talked me into going to a Full Moon Party. Between a bucket of booze and several tablets of ecstasy, we fell in love. Two weeks later we got married, and flew home to face our families' disapproval."  
  
" Families' or  _family's_ ?" Claire asked.  
  
Somehow hearing the difference, Peter butted his head against hers gently, "Clearly that's our secret."  
  
 _How am I joking about this? This is insane._  It was. Some insane, private joke that felt like it couldn't really touch her as long as she felt Peter smiling against her hair. Reaching down, she laced her fingers with his – only to have him pull away suddenly. The movement hit Claire like a gunshot, and tears unexpectedly filled her eyes.  
  
Peter, not oblivious, but stubbornly ignoring her pain, said, "That reminds me. Can you hand me the box?"  
  
Furious with herself, Claire turned her head to scrabble at the tears and grab the box. Hair still shading her face, she thrust it at him. Smoothly oiled hinges worked open beyond the periphery of her vision.  
  
Then Peter gently moved her curtain of hair behind her shoulder, presenting her with a box of glittering gold and diamond against velvet. Rings. Claire's hand reached out to touch the brightest, a thin gold band set with a  _very_  large tear shaped diamond, and then hesitated.  
  
"That's your engagement ring," Peter whispered, plucking the ring from the box. "It was Nana's. Mom's mother, not Dad's. Heidi's got that one already, sorry."  
  
Claire watched silently as he slipped the ring onto her left hand. It fit perfectly, although heavily, on her finger. Undoubtedly, Angela had it altered before the mission, just as she'd had the wedding photos produced.  
  
"I didn't really think you were a diamonds kind of guy, Peter," she said, lifting her eyes from the light of the ring.  
  
He gave her a half-smile. "I'm not. But I never turn down a good heirloom."  
  
Already, Claire's eyes were drawn back to the jewelry box. Several sets of wedding bands gleamed inside – a pair inlaid with delicate filigree, a pair of thick, squarish bands, thin woven bands, some set with still more diamonds and some plain.  
  
"Am I supposed to choose?" Claire asked. "Which ones do you like? Whose were they?"  
  
"My grandparents', on both sides. Nathan and Heidi had their own rings made. Some sets are from further back. Those two," he added, pointing to the square bands, "were my uncle and aunt's – Dad's brother."  
  
"I didn't know Arthur had a brother."  
  
"Well," Peter coughed in embarrassment. "He may have died mysteriously, not long after Mom married Dad, leaving Dad as the only heir."  
  
Claire covered her face and let a familiar, horrified laugh bubble up in her. "Oh. My. God. That explains  _so_  much about you people."  
  
Letting the opportunity to remind her that she  _was_  one of those people pass him by, Peter instead tapped the box and asked, "So, which will it be?"  
  
Claire's fingers skimmed over the rings, smudging the perfect golden polish. They lingered on an older looking pair, engraved leaves rubbed down to near invisibility. The rings really weren't the classiest in the box. Certainly not the most expensive. But they had been  _worn_ .  
  
Noticing her choice, Peter removed them from the box and explained, "Those were your great, great grandmother and grandfather's."  
  
Stomach churning at his words, Claire watched as he slid the wedding band on to fit snugly next to the engagement ring on her finger, and then took the man's ring from Peter's outstretched hand. Concentrating just on his hand, kind and able but maybe not as strong as it needed to be, Claire slid the ring onto his finger.  
  
Peter's hand turned under hers, grasping it, and he leaned forward, kissing her on the forehead – leaving Claire trembling.


	3. Chapter 3

The rest of the trip out to Nassau passed in a silent blur of warm skin and cool metal. All of Claire's focus centered on the hand she was holding, the weight of the rings on her finger, the subtle clink of his ring against hers. Taking shallows breaths, she closed her eyes, alternately trying to tamp down the feelings and reveling in them.

Eventually, Claire felt the car begin to slow. The direct highway gave way to meandering, local roads. Large estates cloistered away behind well trimmed topiaries and large oak trees, glimpsed only briefly, became summer and beach houses no doubt called "modest" and "quaint" by their extravagantly wealthy owners.

The road curved to follow the seaside, and Gleason pulled into the drive of one such house. Pale blue, it stood out sharply from the deep blue backdrop of the ocean. Large bay windows with white shutters dominated the front of the house. Gables jutted into the air, and a telescope peeked out onto the crest of the widow's walk.

The lawn was a rich green that descended swiftly into long stalks of yellow grass as it approached the beach. It was edged by an old, deliberately uneven and mismatched picket fence. Craning her head, Claire could almost see the pale sand beyond the grass.

For a moment, Claire let herself wish that she had actually been raised a Petrelli.

"Hey," Peter said softly, catching her attention as he leaned past her to open the car door on her side. "Put your shoes on, we're here."

She tilted a sardonic look his way. "Never took them off."

Peter scooted down to the opposite side of the car, and opened his own door. "Good. Saves time for when we have to flee." He gestured vaguely to the world outside the car. "Neighbors are already here."

Claire's eyes widened. She looked warily out of her open door, but couldn't spot the voyeurs. Nonetheless, now that Peter had mentioned it, she could feel the familiar prickle – honed over several years living in secrecy – that meant she had to be on her guard. Bracing herself, she grabbed the case files and slid out of the car. She left the box, since presumably, Angela would frown on her stealing the family's antique wedding rings.

Gleason stood next to the trunk, bags already piled at his feet. None were Peter's, Claire noted, and she wondered if he had teleported his own belongings down earlier, or if he had even brought anything. Or if he was staying.

Peter was already part way down the path. Caught off guard by that horrifying thought, Claire hurried to catch up with him, opening her mouth to voice her worry – and then shutting it abruptly when his hand reached out to catch hers, his ring an unexpected, pleasant jolt on her skin.

Digging the keys from his pocket with his other hand, Peter explained with the air of someone forestalling a frequent complaint, "The front entrance is a little plain. The house was always meant to be look at from the beach, not the road."

The door unlocked with a click, and Claire made to open it, but Peter tugged her back. She looked up at him, confused.

"Okay, what are we waiting for?"

"We're not waiting. It's just that first..." Peter stooped slightly to scoop her up. She swallowed a startled laugh, wrapping her arms around his neck. "First, I kind of have to do something."

Nudging the door open with his foot, Peter carried Claire over the threshold.

"Good point!" Claire exhaled, letting him dip her feet back to the floor. She reached out to stabilize herself, finding the heavy beat of his heart beneath her palm. Her fingertips flexed slightly, catching the fabric of his button down shirt before releasing when she stepped back awkwardly. Looking down, Claire felt Peter slowly reach out to her. The gesture was worn deep in her memory, like the groove of a record. She would get embarrassed and he would tilt her face up, quelling her chagrin with a wide, crooked smile.

That old expectation contradicted the unpleasant, predictable distance of the new Peter. Claire shied away from that Peter's touch.

The door creaked behind them as Gleason closed it, toting half of Claire's bags. Never before had Claire been so grateful for the seamless presence of Petrelli family employees.

"Shall I unpack these upstairs, sir?" Gleason asked, drawing the palpable force of Peter's attention away from Claire.

"No, I think Claire would rather do that herself. If you could just leave them in the bedroom..."

Gleason nodded shortly, and trooped up the stairs to deposit the bags. Looking for a new diversion, Claire kneeled to retrieve the file she dropped during Peter's impromptu display of marriage superstition.

Scattered across the oak floor were a dozen small, opened envelopes.

The summer after Claire's senior year was the time she had been closest to Peter. In the vain hope that familiarity with and close proximity to her grandmother would breed contempt – and thus a last minute transfer to UCLA – Noah agreed to allow Claire to spend the summer living with her grandmother, scouring the city for a suitable apartment. She, of course, had spent the majority of that time over at Peter's, rather than enduring the unnerving company of Angela Petrelli.

She couldn't count the number of times she had fetched pizza and, with her classic brand of clumsiness, sent a flurry of unopened envelopes just like these to the ground as she bumped the door closed with her hip.

The only difference was that now she had an idea what the envelopes actually were: invitations to exactly the life Peter had eschewed so long ago.

Putting them back into the folder, Claire's fingers brushed along the open top of a thick, fancy, cream-colored envelope and pulled out the papers inside. One was an embossed invitation to a coming out ball, the other a careful analysis of the pros and cons of attending, written in Angela's sharp script.

Reading the harsh, pointed comments – "Tiffy is such an obsequious name, not a likely target" "Barbara is still in love with Peter" "Evan Clark too paltry a meal for Fusor" – in silent amusement, Claire strolled over to Peter, who was busily opening the shutters to bath the house in light. And to not so incidentally allowing prying neighbors a good view.

Stepping into sunlight, Claire wrapped an arm around Peter's waist, and asked, "Can we talk?"

"Of course. I'm pretty sure _they_ haven't planted any bugs yet." He nodded out the window slightly, to the long grass where a young couple in tennis clothes played with a collie. Claire eyed the couple suspiciously, but they were apparently experienced voyeurs and knew better than to give away the game. She looked back at Peter, raising a sarcastic eyebrow at him. The fading afternoon light threw his sharp face into relief, and long strands of black hair curved along his cheek. He returned the expression, admitting to the moderately paranoid phrasing.

"After we make contact, though," he continued, "we should assume we're being listened to and watched."

"So, plan ahead. Got it." She waved the papers in her hand. "I think Angela already took care of that, actually."

Peter looked at the invitation with trepidation. "I honestly wouldn't even know where to begin, these days. I haven't seen half of these people since high school."

"Oh, they're probably the same. I mean, life _does_ end after high school."

"Does not," he replied, humor creeping into his voice. "I told you it gets better."

Claire smiled, ducking her head to hide it. He still meant it.

Behind her, Gleason cleared his throat. Claire repressed the urge to jump away from Peter, and turned to look at him. He had a carefully schooled expression on his face, betraying how consciously he was working to _not_ understand the situation.

"Your bags are up in the master bedroom, Miss, in front of the wardrobe. Is there anything else you would like me to do, before I go?" _Go?_

"Thank you, but I think that's all," Peter stepped forward to clasp hands with the driver. "Have a safe drive back to the city."

Gleason nodded, and for the first time that day, almost cracked a smile before leaving.

Immediately, Claire whirled on Peter. "So we're trapped out here?"

Peter looked at her blankly. "What?"

Claire gestured wildly toward the closed door. "Our driver _and car_ just left!"

"We still have the MG."

She looked at him askance, waiting for him to explain.

"Dad could never take a real vacation, so any time we came out here, he'd always be in and out of the city, making sure the other partners didn't destroy the firm while he was gone. Mom hated having to rely on someone 'so flighty'. So, when I was about ten, she finally got angry enough to buy a car for this house."

Claire pretended that made sense, including the idea that the most obvious description of her ambitious, willful grandfather was _flighty_.

Then, she fixed Peter with a level look. "Rich people are insane."

He could only shrug in response.

Sighing, she turned on her heel and went up stairs to search out the master bedroom and unpack. She heard Peter trail after, footsteps light on the aged floorboards.

Luckily, the beach house was no larger than Claire's old home in Odessa, so she found the bedroom with only one false start – accidentally finding herself in a brass and canvas, vaguely nautical-themed bedroom that apparently once belonged to Nathan.

Letting herself into the master bedroom, she marveled at just how different this house felt from Angela's, and even Nathan's. Certainly many of the charming, "lived in" touches were sheer artifice. Like most Petrelli belongings, it had been designed to within an inch of its life. _But_ , she thought as Peter crossed the room to open a window looking over the twilight shadowed ocean, _you can breathe here_.

Peter perched on the banquette underneath the window, knees folded underneath him like a little kid, ready to spring up at any moment. The line of his back was taut with tension, and this time his eyes followed the quickly disappearing horizon, no attention spared for their would be neighbors-cum-stalkers.

Claire crossed her arms, pressing her left hand to the bare flesh of her arm, the metal of the rings still a shock, as she watched him ignore her. With no one to watch, Claire supposed Peter wasn't really interested in keeping up the charade.

Shaking off her disappointment, she moved to the antiqued and distressed wardrobe, and was met with a surprise. Angela had only filled _half_ of it with clothing she deemed appropriate for a young lady of status. The hangers mostly wore sundresses, similar to the one photo-Claire was married in, although a pair of evening gowns hung off the one side. She gave them only a cursory glance, since the colors, silver and peach respectively, did _nothing_ for her complexion.

  
Underneath the dresses, on the bottom shelf of the wardrobe, however, was a truly striking array of black, silver, white, strappy, plain, and stiletto heels. A particular pair drew her eye.  
  
"Peter," Claire called, staring at the offending shoes. Peter glanced over from the window and she continued, " _Why_ would your mother buy me 'come-fuck-me's?"  
  
"I...," Peter tried very hard not to lose his balance and defenestrate himself. That would certainly blow their cover most inconveniently. "I... only heard the end of that. What."  
  
Lifting the offending items out of the wardrobe by their slender, black straps, she repeated, "Why did your _mother_ buy _me_ CFMs?"  
  
Peter looked more than a little embarrassed. "Um. About that... that's part of the mission we haven't talked about yet."  
  
"Please don't tell me I have to seduce someone. I suck at seduction, just ask Elle!"  
  
"When did you...?" Peter frowned. He shook his head, trying to clear away that distracting line of thought. "Never mind. In any case, no. You are trying to _be_ seduced by Fusor, by looking like you are trying to seduce your husband. We married in the first flush of love, in paradise, and since we came back to the US, nothing has gone right and," Here, Claire was shocked to see Peter actually blush, "your husband hasn't exactly pleased you in bed."  
  
"Aww, poor thing. Just remember, it's fiction," Claire said, nodding in mock reassurance.  
  
"Thanks," he said dryly. "But my ego isn't _that_ fragile."  
  
A rather annoying suspicion niggled at her. "So, is that why they chose me for this one, and not Maya or Monica? Angela thought I'd jump at the chance to mack on some super-psycho chick?"

Peter stared at her. "If you really think that, I think you're confused about Mom's motives. You are just the one who is best suited to this mission. The legal records about your identity are confused at best these days, the Social Register loves blondes, and you _can't be disintegrated_.

"But," he added with some concern. "I didn't realize you would see it that way. Does it really bother you?"

Claire shrugged, disgruntled with her own reaction.

"Yeah. I guess. It's just... Angela's already planned everything, like she always does, and it doesn't matter what I say or do, because she's planned for that, too. And, in case you haven't noticed, we've sort of been married against our will here. I'm not a big fan of pimping myself out, on top of that."

Peter unfolded himself from the bench, and drew Claire with him to sit on the bed.

"Hey. We're not going to do that. We're just going to make contact, and look interestingly dissatisfied with each other. We don't even need to get her to stalk us, really. We just need to get close enough to find out where she's keeping the other couple, the Holverwells."

She met his eyes seriously. "If we do it that way, you are going to have to use a lot of your abilities."

Peter didn't try to hide the fear in his eyes at the thought.

"I know. I've got it under control now," he lied.

Claire smiled weakly at him and said, "I guess we'll just have to wait and see. Maybe it'll be love at first sight and she'll just forget all the rules of villainy, tell us where they are, and handcuff herself for us."

"Right." Peter put his hands on his knees, and slowly breathed in and out. Distress knifed through Claire's heart. She had thought he was doing better these days.

"What just happened?" she asked, hands going to cover his.

"Mom's power. It would just be so _easy_ ," he said, voice agonized. "I could check the future, or astrally project to wherever Fusor is right now, and we'd know. We'd know, and I could catch her _right now_ and make sure the Holverwells are safe. It could be over."

Claire pressed her nails down into the sensitive places between finger bones on the backs of his hands, startling him with the pain.

"No," she told him forcefully. "Do _not_ think that way. We both know what happens when you start to think you need to fix everything. You are just one person."

As clearly as if she had Matt Parkman's power, Claire heard the thought running through his head _I am one person, and I am just Peter. I am one person, and I am just Peter. I am one person, and I am just Peter._

She vividly remembered Nathan chanting that mantra to Peter, arms locked around his brother in a restraining embrace five months ago. The burned out Primatech building they finally confronted him in had been painted in blood, Claire's own making up significant proportions of it. She remembered the feel of her red, flayed palm sticking to a red wall, gasping as she savagely commanded herself to heal.

Her healing retinas pinpointed only the brothers, Monica and Matt and Hiro and Niki a gray blur beyond her vision when it finally came to an end. She still didn't really understand what had happened, but Peter recovered himself and that was enough.

Eventually, the furrow in Peter's brow eased, and he flashed a conciliatory smile at her as he removed Claire's hands, which she had actually forgotten were still on his, to the bedspread.

"Crisis over," he tried to joke.

"Yeah. So..."

"Want to meet the neighbors?"

Claire shook her head. "Not really. No."

But Peter was already standing, closing the wardrobe and nudging her still packed bags even with the corners. He held out a hand and Claire took it without entirely meaning to.

"I think we've been rude enough to Mitzy and Jay already. They must be dying of curiosity."

Claire had not inherited the Petrelli ability for hairpin emotional turns – or repression, at least. Throat still tight with emotion, she joked along lamely, "You _actually_ know a Mitzy?"

"We were friends at camp."

Claire shook her head slightly. No, that still didn't parse. A Petrelli, at camp? But, while they were at it, that reminded her of something else.

"Just how many people are in on our cover story?"

They were halfway down the staircase, hands still linked, with Claire two steps above Peter and almost of a height with him. He squeezed her hand a little, and smiled unhappily.

"Everyone."

" _Everyone_ everyone?" she repeated in horror.

"Well, I don't think Mom sent out a bulletin to Noah or your high school friends, but yeah. Everyone at the Company knows, May knows, Nathan knows, and if you meet up with any of your college friends before the end of the mission, you are supposed to tell them."

Claire hadn't been a popular mean girl for a very, very long time. Which is why she was somewhat surprised at the undignified shriek that escaped her.

" _That will ruin my life!_ "

"That's the Company."

Claire stomped down to the step he was on, and pushed at him. "What about you? Who do you have to tell?"

"No one." Peter shrugged. "Nathan already knows."


	4. Chapter 4

Claire slept fitfully, the unaccustomed sound of waves crashing into her dreams to rouse her from unconsciousness. In the drift of dreamlessness, she could feel legs entangled with hers, feel warm breath on her neck. Clumsy with sleep, she threw off the covers, trying to escape the stifling heat of the bed. Sweat cooling on her sticky limbs, she curled against Peter, listened to his heartbeat, felt his hand stroke through her hair. And slept.

The first time Claire woke, the weak morning light barely filtered through the thick curtains of the bedroom. She heard shuffling, and felt Peter's hand rumple the fabric of her shorts as it slid from her hip, catching on the exposed skin of her leg.

The second time she woke, she was flushed and winded, snapping upright before remembering the where and why and settling once more against the down pillows. Claire blinked against the bright, full beams of sunlight that clearly announced the approaching noon.

"Day two," she mumbled, covering her face with her arm.

By the time she came downstairs, salvaging an outfit from the debris of what she had unpacked on the floor, it was well past eleven. Yawning like any good college student, she made a beeline for the humming coffee maker in the kitchen. After a healthy chug, and moderate burns to her throat, Claire realized that Peter had been busy.

The house layout put the kitchen close to the back door, and where there had been a yellow-white trail of sand leading all the way up to the stairwell was instead a cleanly polished floor. More clean, Claire suspected, than it had been the day before. A cursory check of the refrigerator also confirmed that, if the house had not been stocked yesterday, it certainly was now.

Wondering what brought on the uncharacteristic bout of domesticity, Claire left her mug on the counter and went to look for Peter.

The sound of tapping on a keyboard drew her to an open door left of the stairs, which turned out to be the home office. A room vital for vacationing, clearly. However, Claire did have to admit that this office looked rather more like it was used for advanced ship-bottle unification projects than helping mobsters hide their tax fraud.

Peter sat at the desk, typing in front of a wide window as the curtains fluttered in the ocean breeze. He was dressed in light running clothes that were still wet with sweat, although Peter himself was not. From the previous summer, Claire knew he preferred to run before the rest of the world had awoken.

She wondered just how many times he had gone out this morning. She wondered just how exhausted he was.

Reading the dark circles beneath his eyes, she could tell the answer to the latter was somewhere between very and not nearly enough, and her heart clenched. Her fingers tightened on the varnished molding of the door as she recalled her decision from the night before.

Without looking up from the screen, Peter said, "I need you to come take a look at this."

Feeling slightly ashamed of her long examination of him, Claire navigated through the corpses of hobbies past to lean against the window sill. She looked over Peter's shoulder at long blocks of text and asked, "And this is?"

"Encounter report. I want you to look it over and add your part. Since you _were_ the one who made contact with Fusor," Peter said, all traces of anger over the incident seemingly gone.

Peter relinquished his chair, and Claire slid onto the plush leather, feeling the warmth of him at her back. Giving the screen a cursory glance, she swiveled in place and pinned him with a look.

"Did you sleep last night?"

"Better than most nights," he admitted. Claire didn't find that particularly heartening.

"Are you okay?" she asked with concern.

He expelled a long breath, rubbing a hand over his face. Never one to hide from his feelings, he half shrugged, saying, "Not really."

"You'll tell me if things get worse," she said, half hope, half command.

Peter was quiet for a very long moment, hazel eyes opaque as he searched himself for an honest answer.

"I will," he said, turning his gaze to her. Last night, Claire had seen his wary disbelief that she could possibly trust him. Now, she saw only the steady truth of his trust in _her_.

"Okay," she said softly. Satisfied, she turned back to the computer. Skimming the report, her eyes caught on the description of Fusor. " _Blue_ eyes, Peter? Did you even look at her?"

 

 

After a short brunch, wherein Peter demonstrated further un-Petrelli-like skills, he put his meetings with the Sanders family to good use. The long ignored wireless router finally found its purpose, networking to Claire's laptop and having its signal vastly boosted over the intended radius.

Which meant that Claire was given the opportunity to experience the joy of finally sending in a term paper from the comfort of the beach.

Peter, in a rare fit of sensibility, had maneuvered a wooden recliner from the deck onto the beach and set her laptop at it. Positioned just right, it was high enough to be in Claire's eye line if she rested her head against Peter's leg while she stretched out on her side. Grinning, she thrust one arm up vertically in a very half-assed approximation of Hiro's celebratory trademark.

"I'm done!"

Fingers trailing through the sand walked up to Claire to flick tiny yellow grains at her nose. "Now all you have to do is make it through another three years."

Claire wrinkled her nose, batting at Peter's hand. "Would you stop that?"

"Only if you distract me."

"I think you're distracted enough," she said with an indelicate snort. "Don't you have, you know, _a job_?"

She turned onto her back, allowing her neck to curve against his leg. Claire squinted into the high noon sun, tilting her head from side to side, studying how the light haloed around his dark hair as she waited for his answer. One, she realized abruptly, that she didn't actually know herself. Peter had never committed to working full time for the Company, and he usually seemed to split time between haring off after disasters of global importance and volunteering at local charities.

A pair of black wing tips sunk into the sand near them, just barely within Claire's vision.

"He does, actually. Sitting with paraplegic kittens with AIDS, wasn't it, Pete?" came Nathan's irritated voice before Peter could answer.

Unexpected guilt and anger seized Claire at his interruption. She turned her face aside, into Peter's leg once more, hiding the frown that marred her face. Selfishly, Claire let herself wish for Peter to handle Nathan, somehow make him leave them alone in their insane mission-slash-fantasy.

But Peter rolled to his feet, spilling Claire awkwardly to the ground. Spitting out a mouthful of sand, she glared up at him, and took in the tense tableaux before her. Peter had changed from his running clothes into a navy button down shirt and rolled up his slacks to accommodate the beach. He stood out as a dark smudge on the horizon, as he stalked close into Nathan's personal space. Shoeless, he ceded the height advantage to his brother. Sharply pressed in a three piece suit, Nathan still seemed more at home and in command than he had any right to as he gripped Peter's shoulders in a mockery of comfort.

"Elderly leukemia patients, actually, and today's my day off. But why split hairs?" Peter replied with surprising hostility. Claire's frown deepened, and she pulled herself to her feet. She was loathe to get between them – aside from her biological father being one of the last people she was interested in talking to about her recent nuptials, interfering with their indescribable rapport tended to end badly.

Nathan sighed, and eased his grip of Peter, slinging an arm around his shoulders. It was clear that he hadn't really come to start a fight, but he had let his mouth get ahead of him. Trying to forestall the conflict, he asked, "How's the mission going?"

Peter shrugged off the contact, and crossed his arms, "Fine. Tell me you didn't fly here."

"Once again, Pete, I'm not you," _and you are not me_ went unvoiced. Peter took that as the slap in the face that Claire was not entirely sure it was meant as, especially as she saw regret shadow Nathan's features.

It had actually been quite a while since she had seen Nathan. Between college, his job, Peter's recovery, and Noah Bennet's always looming presence in their relationship, she had not had time to schedule awkward lunches with him since before Peter's problems began.

Despite the tightness of Nathan's expression, he looked good. The contrast between his refreshed confidence and Peter's wan, pensive thinness pricked up a sharp ache in Claire's chest. Although Nathan frequently complained that his role as liaison between the Company and the government was something Peter was far more suited for, it clearly energized him. The reality of the job was that it was less forging alliances and more trying to forestall an all out war between the opposing organizations through negotiation, sock puppetry in other civil rights groups, and common bribery – all things that the elder Petrelli brother had an undeniable talent for.

Trying for an even tone, Nathan told Peter, "You missed our check in."

Peter's eyes widened in fake astonishment. "Really? That was _today_?"

"It's every day, non-negotiable – and you missed two."

"What?!" Claire exclaimed. Finally pulling herself up from the sand with a hand on the deck chair, she marched over to Peter and leaned up into his space. "You said you told Nathan about us!"

Nathan gave a low laugh, and Claire glanced back at him to see his eyes locked challengingly on Peter's. "No, he didn't, Claire. He's too much like Ma for that."

With an obstinate expression that Claire could only describe as bratty, Peter explained without looking at her, "I didn't say I told Nathan. I said he knew. He and Mom make sure to plan every little detail of my life behind my back, so why would this be any different?"

"Because you do so well when we don't?"

"I don't need a baby sitter, Nathan. Least of all you," Peter snapped.

Nathan rolled his eyes. "Somehow, I always forget how childish you can be."

"You'll have to teach me that. I never manage to forget what a _jackass_ you are."

Sick of Peter talking over her head, Claire pushed at him, "What about you, Peter? You feel like it's okay to just _lie_ to me like that and then get pissed when you think I don't trust you?"

Peter looked down at her, self-reproach seeping into his expression. But the stubborn set of his jaw didn't change.

"I didn't lie to you, Claire."

Shaking her head in disgust, she stalked over to Nathan. Giving Peter a pointed look, she asked Nathan, "When is he supposed to check in with you?"

"Every night," he replied, eyes on Peter. "We go over the powers he used during the day and which ones he was tempted to use. Family bonding, et cetera..."

That didn't seem so bad. "I can do that."

"What?" Nathan smiled condescendingly at her. "I really don't think that's necessary, Claire."

"Nathan only likes me being controlled when it's _him_ doing the controlling," Peter cut in.

"Would you stay out of this?" Nathan threw a bored look over at him, making Peter fume. "Claire, I appreciate the offer. But you're nineteen. You don't need to be responsible for another adult."

Claire crossed her arms. "I've been _more_ than responsible for years, Nathan. Doing missions, saving the world... kinda entails being responsible for other people. And I'm _right here_. Talking to Peter isn't an issue."

"Except right now," Peter said to no one in particular.

"Claire. No." Dismissing her just that easily, he raised an eyebrow at Peter. "Tantrum over?" Peter looked away, but it was clear his temper was cooling. "I can wait."

Grudgingly, Peter shrugged, "We can have our check in now, okay?"

Nathan smiled tightly, walking over to pull Peter into a hug. Peter clung for a moment, pressing the side his face closely against Nathan and closing his eyes. Claire could hear his almost whispered, " _Jackass_ ," before they separated.

Exhausted and annoyed in the way that only Petrelli family relationships could provoke, Claire slumped onto the deck chair, and retrieved her laptop. Ignoring the quiet conversation between the brothers, conducted millimeters from each other in typical form, she jittered her finger across the touch pad, waking the computer up. It looked like it was time for another round of her favorite time wasting hobby scouring YouTube for cool videos that were a little _too_ cool to be visual effects.

Even after years of encountering enthusiastic specials like Hiro and Monica, Claire was still a little surprised that so many people felt no need for secrecy. It was a little less surprising, though, that most people didn't see the potential good their abilities could do beyond garnering a few weeks of internet fame.

It was only a few minutes, before Claire was distracted from her search. Nathan's phone rang, and he had an abortive, peevish conversation with the person on the other end of the line. Even with a long stretch of beach between them, Claire could see the disappointment and frustration clouding Peter's face, even after his talk with Nathan had begun to clear it.

Nathan made his way over to Claire, intent on leaving Peter out of their conversation once more.

"If Peter tries to fly, call me," he said quickly. "When he starts to miss someone, that's when he's most likely to try to use their power. Got it?"

Claire nodded, a question about just how slow he thought she was on her lips, but he was already walking away to the sports car she could just barely see around the corner of the house. Claire fought the unexpected disappointment she felt, watching the strong line of Nathan's back walk _away_ with purpose.

Peter was standing some distance away still, his own disappointment far more pronounced. He had wrapped his arms around himself and somehow looked far more tired than before.

Calling to him, Claire tried to make peace, "Did things just get worse?"

Eyes downcast, he drifted over to where she was sitting, dropping onto the sand to the left of her chair and curling his arms around his legs as he watched the gray-blue ocean.

"Yeah," he said into his knees.

Breathing out, Claire suppressed the urge to physically reach out to him.

"What –?" she began, before Peter interrupted.

"I'm sorry," he said abruptly. "I did lie to you before, and I did it on purpose. Nathan doesn't think I should be on this mission. He thinks it's too much of a temptation for me."

Recalling the incident about Angela's ability the day before, Claire had to ask, "Is it?"

"No. I don't think so, anyway. Some days are worse than others."

Trying not to feel hurt, Claire asked, "And yesterday was worse?"

"It was a complicated day," he said carefully.

Fighting with herself, Claire resolved to accept that. It was true, after all, as much as she didn't want to think that being with her would be difficult for Peter. Leaning over slightly, she rested a hand on Peter's forearm where it hugged his knees to his chest, finally drawing his eyes to hers.

"Is it true?" she asked. "That you don't fly anymore?"

"He's too different from me, Claire," he said. "He's just too much stronger."

"That's not _true_ , Peter!" Claire began, but even before he started shaking his head, she knew it was a lost cause. Even now, with the power of a god at his disposal, the Petrellis believed Peter needed nothing more than being protected from the harsh realities of the world. It wasn't so different from her dad's attitude toward her, and Claire knew in her bones that it would never change.

And, for all his protests, Peter still believed that lie in a way that Claire had long since abandoned.

Trying to distract them both from that fruitless line of thought, Claire asked, "So, where did Nathan run off to in such a hurry? I thought he was here for you."

It was apparently the wrong question to ask, because Peter looked away, curling tighter in upon himself.

"Some kind of emergency with work. He wouldn't tell me what. Because that's how it is with Nathan. _He_ gets to have a life – a job and a wife and a family. But it's not okay for me to have a life. I do something, and he charges right out here to remind me who I belong to," Peter said with bitterness.

"No one _owns_ you, Peter" Claire said uneasily, never quite happy talking about this brand of Petrelli dysfunction.

"I didn't say that!" Peter contradicted, head snapping up to glare at her.

"Then what– ?"

"I just," Peter sighed, looking helplessly frustrated, finally unfurling to lie down on the beach, jaw clenched against tears as he stared into the piercing sunlight. "I get so tired of it, Claire. _Every day_ I wake up, it's a fight just to salvage myself from this power, and I only have to mess up once. We know how well that works out with me."

This time Claire couldn't refuse herself. Reaching out a firm hand, she fumbled in the sand until she found his left hand. Squeezing tightly, she could feel the comfortable press of his ring against her palm.

"You aren't going to mess up, Peter. You are so much stronger than you think you are."

"I'm jealous of him, Claire. How strong is that? But it's so easy for him. Flying is who he is. It doesn't break him apart."

"Peter," she murmured. "If it were easy, you wouldn't deserve the power you have. It's who you are, too. And you are not broken."

There was a long silence from Peter, where she hoped her words were making a difference to him. A sidelong glance showed that, although his mouth was stressed and thin, and his jaw tense, his eyes were clear of pain. The almost agonized grip she held on his hand relaxed. She turned onto her side to watch as he consciously let the worries go, and she drew his hand up, kissing him lightly on the back of his hand.

Then she let their hands fall into the sand between them, watching him as he watched the sky.

Eyes tracking the loud gulls tracing paths around the clouds, Peter admitted, "I miss flying."

Claire and Peter lay on the beach, listening to each others' soft breaths until the sun began to dim on the horizon. Claire thought about Nathan’s final words to her, something about them lingering like a twist of smoke in her mind. She was just beginning to wonder if Peter had fallen asleep, when he rolled decisively to his feet, pulling gently on her arm, urging her to rise as well.

Shutting the lid of her laptop and collecting it under his other arm, he swung their hands between them. Silently, they walked to the back door, Claire focused on Peter’s hand, warm and dry and big around her own. He slid it from hers to open the door, gesturing for her to enter ahead of him, but quickly seized her hand back once inside, spinning her to look at him in surprise.

Smiling down at her, he asked, "So... dinner?"

It was a good smile, surprisingly so. Claire knew that whatever had just happened wasn't really catharsis. It couldn't be. But it was _something_.


	5. Chapter 5

Claire flexed her toes into the cold, dry sand, feeling deliciously gauche and rebellious. Mitzy and Jay Leeds, it turned out, were the vanguard force of their curious, gossipy neighbors. They were sent ahead to do reconnaissance on "that strange Petrelli boy's child bride" – as Claire imagined it, at least – and to remind them about the theoretically impromptu, but catered and professionally decorated, cook out that Angela had already RSVPed for them.

Knowing the stakes, and perhaps as eager to end the mission as Claire was, Peter accepted on their behalf, before Claire could even protest her lack of sandals.

Of course, the cook out was that very evening, only an hour after Claire and Peter actually went to talk with the friendly neighbors pretending to be there for any reason _except_ them. As Claire hurriedly strewed the contents of her bags around the master bedroom, frantically searching for anything appropriate, she had wondered exactly what Mitzy and Jay would have done if Peter and Claire had decided to ignore their presence entirely.

"Spread stories about our wild, uncontrollable sexual deviance," Peter had concluded. "Non-deviants know to greet the neighbors."

Claire had paused in her search, and met his entirely serious eyes. He was sitting lotus on the bed, a cardigan laying across one thigh.

"But how were we supposed to know to talk them?"

"They were on our property. They'd be on theirs if they didn't want to talk."

Claire filed away that piece of information about the territoriality of the elite and went back to her search. Except, there was nothing left to search. There was nothing she could wear of her own clothes that didn't induce wrenching embarrassment at the thought of being critiqued by debutantes and millionaires. What was she _thinking_ when she packed?

Huffing in silent anger, she had turned to the dreaded wardrobe, and Angela's choices for her. They were demure, boring, and utterly perfect. Defeated, she selected a knee-length, navy blue sundress, and then in vain hunted among the CFMs for a pair of sandals.

Sitting back on her haunches, she looked across the plane of the bed and complained to Peter's knees, "I don't have sandals. How could Angela not plan for me to go _to the beach that we're living on_?"

Peter leaned over the side of the bed, hand on the edge to steady himself, and looked at the mess she had made rummaging through the shoe collection.

"For one, there will be a deck." Slanting a look at Claire, he asked, "And secondly, who said you need shoes?"

Which somehow led to the obvious of solution of Claire carrying a pair of strappy, glossy red pumps that matched her purse, rather than actually wearing them as she and Peter walked barefoot down the beach to the party. His black pants were imperfectly cuffed, and edged with sand by the time they arrived late to the party, which was actually a considerable distance away.

Angela, no doubt, had imagined them driving that short distance to be greeted properly at the front door. They would be led out to the beach by servants and making idle chit chat from the comfort of the deck, high priced shoes used to maximum effect, emphasizing the lines of Claire's legs.

Feeling the sand shift beneath her feet, eyes picking out the white caterer's tents as they loomed larger and larger on the horizon before finally being greeted by servants and guests at the edge, as though crossing the border to a foreign land; feeling the wind sift through her hair, mussing it with sea spray; listening for when faint music overwhelmed the sounds of the sea; walking with an arm curled around Peter's waist, meeting the eyes of strangers with no guilt or hesitance or explanation; Claire decided she very much liked her way better.

"Oh, Claire, dear, I'm so glad you could make it!" called Mitzy, rushing over to air kiss. Claire returned the gesture, old hand at fake, instantaneous bonding.

"I wasn't sure I had anything to wear, but..." Claire said leadingly.

Mitzy gave her a once over, and smiled approvingly. Claire knew this game, too. What Mitzy said about her dress was irrelevant. The important thing was that she came over directly to greet her. Everyone had spotted them, and if Claire were a disaster, Mitzy would have casually shunned her for as long as possible.

"Don't worry, darling. That dress is just too cute. And I adore the shoeless look. It's just so fresh and young," she enthused, sounding not unlike Cosmo. Mitzy herself was shoeless, likely having appointed Jay to babysit them.

Turning to Peter, Mitzy seemed to take in his overly long hair – as if he would have gotten it cut in the hour between talking with her and going to the party – and offered a plastic smile.

"It really has been too long since I've seen you at one of these, Peter. When was the last time you even came out?"

Promptly, Peter returned, "Summer after graduation, remember? You were dating Alec back then and Jay was with your sister?"

"Oh, yes," she bit out. "Now I remember. Well, much as I'd love to stay and reminisce with you, Peter, I really would be remiss in my duties as hostess if I didn't introduce Claire to the girls. I'm sure Jay would love to catch up with you."

Jay gave an startled look from where he trailed behind Mitzy, evidently unused to being acknowledged by her. Peter gave him a sympathetic, but amused look.

"So," he began with cheerful ruthlessness, "how's your mother in law's twelve step going?"

Snickering, Claire tried to remember if, in fact, Mitzy was the hostess of this party as she let herself be led away, reluctantly allowing distance to break her grasp on Peter's hand. She was fairly certain that Mitzy was not. The severe woman teetering around the deck in heels, squinting at a clipboard – introduced by Peter as Mrs Teresa Amberwithe-Dreyfus – was actually Claire's prime suspect.

She glanced back once at Peter, smiling a little at his bemusement. Somehow, he had ended up in custody of her shoes, giving him something to bond with Jay over. Claire broke her gaze away from him, forcibly reminding herself that they were _troubled_ newlyweds. Watching him longingly from a few feet away didn't fit well with that cover.

Mitzy quite honorably gossiped and pointed and generally filled Claire in on the darkest personal details of those attending the cook out. The Feith's investment portfolio was falling through, thus the ostentatiously fake jewelry locked around Janet's every limb. Allan James's fourth nose job was coming just the _slightest_ bit undone. The youngest Kruse daughter just broke off her second engagement, and had the look of a woman on the prowl, so Claire was warned to mind her husband. And, of course, Brown – of Wade, Brown, and Brown – was currently in search of a new secretary, having "worn out" the last one.

"Better keep Peter away from that one, too. He's just Carl's type," Mitzy advised with a wink.

Claire laughed, "I really don't think that's going to be a problem."

Mitzy shook her head, and reached out to pat Claire on the arm. "Oh, sweetie, you really haven't spent much time around the Petrellis, have you?"

Pulling her arm away, Claire stopped walking and glared. "What do you mean by that? I think I know my... my _husband_ pretty well."

"Hon, I hate to break it to you, but you married into the most congenitally adulterous family around. Arthur slept with the nannies. Angela slept with business acquaintances. Nathan bangs trashy blondes." Claire balled her hands into fists, but willed them to stay at her sides. Mitzy continued, oblivious to Claire's darkening expression, "Peter is the nice one, but that doesn't mean much with that group. And given some of the rumors about him at camp... well, let's just say I don't think he's all that _selective_ , if you know what I mean."

Great. Two slurs against Claire in one speech. Baring her teeth in an aggressive smile, Claire replied, "No. I can't say that I do."

Knowing it was the wrong move, knowing that she was supposed to be making inroads with these people, Claire nonetheless turned away from Mitzy before the pretty brunette could elaborate, and stormed off toward one of the caterer's tents.

Pausing before ducking under the canvas canopy, Claire glanced around, trying to pick Peter's black hair out from the wash of socialites, but she couldn't see him. She saw bland faces, shaped by cosmetics, spas, and wealth. She saw the sparkle of diamonds, the swish of designer dresses, the pleat of formal, thick slacks and the informal deck shoes they covered.

And suddenly she remembered she was on a mission to find a killer, and she didn't know where her partner was.

This was not Claire's first mission. It was not her first mission with Peter, either. Before his problems, they ran several, Claire joyfully calling him her sidekick while he indulgently nodded and tried to remind her that sidekicks had to be _younger_ than the hero. Claire would conclude that Peter was Nathan's sidekick, and that since you can't be sidekick to a sidekick, she was her own hero, and Peter would relent to her flawless logic with a grin.

Their missions together were fun and easy. Peter liked to show off his powers, refining his control more each time they went out. Claire usually did little more than play secret agent, her ability unnecessary with Peter's sheer fire power around. Maintaining light psychic contact, Peter would keep a running commentary up to amuse her, and she in turn would think snide rejoinders as loudly as she could.

But psychic powers were entirely off limits to Peter now – Molly's power segued to Matt's and then Angela's, and they all opened doors to the most damaged planes and most fractured angles of Peter's psyche. What Claire tried to forget and Peter never wanted to revisit.

Shivering in the warm breeze, Claire wished for that old rapport and looked desperately for Peter once more.

She was just stepping out from under the canopy when one of the caterers bumped into her with a box of dirtied china and cutlery, knocking the wind from Claire and sending the contents of the box into the sand.

"Oh, sorry!" Claire gasped, bending to help retrieve the dining ware.

The caterer remained professionally silent, dumping plates and a good heaping of sand back into the box hastily. Smooth, quickly moving hands belied their hardness as they brushed Claire's help aside. Off put, Claire pulled her hands back and looked up to examine the caterer.

Dull, darkly colored hair was pulled into a tight knot at the back of her head, sharpening already harsh features to be uncomfortably piercing. Even with her eyes focused on her work, Claire could see an edge lurking in them. Her heart gave a thunderous beat as she recognized the woman: _Clémence Fusor._

Backing away warily, Claire allowed her mark to dust herself off, and haul the dishes off to be cleaned.

Inside the tent, two other caterers were grilling fillets, crabs, lobsters, and other sea animals unfortunate enough to be considered delicacies. Deciding dinner might settle some of her anxiety, she hovered near the enticing aroma as she acquired her own plate. It wasn't nearly as good as Dad's barbecue, but she couldn't really expect better from Easterners. While she ate, she surveyed the socialites dotting tables and harassing waiters. Most were more elderly, casting suspicious looks at the edge of sky that peeked out from around the canopy and bemoaning sacrificing designer sports jackets to the "terrible" weather. One group, however, did not fit into that octogenarian age bracket.

Steeling herself, Claire left her empty plate behind, and waded into the circle of chatting young women on the other side of the tent. They were far more coiffed and traditional than Mitzy, cute platform sandals adorning their feet, dresses conservatively cut. The woman leading the conversation was blonde and wearing a champagne colored, cotton wrap. She acknowledged Claire with a nod, but carried on speaking, uninterested in letting the others' attention be diverted from herself.

"That's when Daniel proposed we go on vacation up at the lake, and I honestly couldn't abide it. We went to Ibiza last year, and this year he thinks Champlain is comparable. Daddy looked a little ashamed to know him!" the woman concluded, to unladylike snorts.

A slight Asian woman standing across from Claire curtailed her mirth to ask, "So have you two decided on a date, even without a location?"

"Evie, we're _not_ going at the same time as you and Kwang-sun. You'll have plenty of time to breed Missy Crinkles!"

Claire's eyes widened, and Evie favored her with an explanation, "Missy Crinkles is the only breed worthy Shar Pei on the island."

"And your Glitter's _sister_ ," said a redhead, with a moue of disgust.

"That's actually not uncommon," Claire added from the sidelines, suddenly drawing the group's attention. "It's a pretty big controversy among breeders, because it reinforces genetic defects in a breed."

"It keeps the breed traits true, though," Evie argued. A woman who, in Claire's opinion, had never taken a genetics class in her life.

"But those traits are dominant. You don't need to breed with that close a relative to maintain them. If you were trying to _create_ a breed, then maybe."

The blonde looked at Claire appraisingly. "I didn't know that. Where did you learn about breeding?"

"From my mom, mostly. She breeds Pomeranians. And," she added shyly, still somewhat daunted by the lofty goal she had set herself, "I'm studying genetics at NYU."

"NYU?" asked Evie, with the air of someone trying to figure out why she was suddenly hearing about one thing all the time. "Ohhhh, so _you're_ Peter's little chippie."

The other women, sensing the tide of the blonde's opinion, glared at Evie. She shrank back a little. Abashed, Evie offered a conciliatory smile. "Claire, right?"

The group made rounds introducing themselves Angelique in red, Lauren with the _very_ nice shoes, Cinnie the redhead, and Lexi the blonde leader. The girls were less cutting gossips than Mitzy, but no less informative. Exchanging only the basic outline of her Thai romance with Peter earned everything but the social security numbers of her neighbors, and made her dearly wish for a notebook to write a fraction of it down in.

The topic somehow wandered back to the _utterly_ inappropriate vacation locale Lexi's boyfriend was set on incarcerating her in, when Claire was distracted by movements just beyond the edge of her vision. She carefully tilted her head to the side, pretending to examine an elderly woman's terrible dress sense.

Fusor walked over to a table with hard, lithe strides, collecting plates once more.

Eyes following Fusor intently, Claire made excuses to the group. _You don't have to do this_ , she reminded herself.

And then she did it anyway.

Walking over to the table next to the one Fusor was clearing, Claire picked up the half empty wine glasses abandoned once the party goers moved on to another venue. As Fusor finished, she picked up the box to move to Claire's table, and stopped, watching Claire suspiciously.

Claire carefully placed the glasses into the bin, and smiled hesitantly at Fusor.

"Okay. What?" Fusor asked, with all the casual hostility of an underpaid waitress.

"I just wanted to ask you a question."

"So ask."

Claire really didn't know. _Something about a romantic dinner to rekindle romance with my husband? Maybe?_ Claire's mouth went dry as she struggled to think of a plausible reason to ask a caterer to help her marriage.

"Oh, _there_ you are, Claire," came Peter's voice. "I was just beginning to worry."

He wrapped an arm around her waist, and smiled indifferently at Fusor. Claire didn't have to fake her jitters as she looked up at him, forcing a wan smile. Peter's touch did nothing to slow her racing heart; _this_ was what the whole charade was about.

"I was just about to ask..." she looked to Fusor, prompting for a name, and saw the woman's demeanor had changed entirely. She smiled softly at the couple, while watching with disconcerting, predatory eyes.

"Clémence," she offered.

Claire smiled, meeting Fusor's eyes for just a second too long. "Right. I was just about to ask Clémence here –"

"Then I suppose I'll leave you to it," Peter interrupted. "I didn't realize you were still tangled up here."

"Oh, no. I mean, I'm not. I'm ready to go if you are, dear," she covered with some difficulty, looking apologetically at Fusor.

Without really looking at Fusor, Peter insincerely rattled off a goodbye and frogmarched Claire out of the tent. Heart in her throat, Claire closed her eyes, trying to will away the tingle of Fusor's sharp gaze on her back.

Peter's grip eased, no longer directing her anywhere, but he remained angrily closed off, hand hovering over her waist without touching. He was breathing in stoically measured breathes that put Claire further on edge.

"Are you mad at me?"

"Why are you trying to complete this whole mission by yourself? Did you even _look_ for me?" he snapped.

"What? Of course I did! But I'm not the one who disappeared after letting that bitch Mitzy steal my partner," she pronounced with some resentment.

Peter stopped walking, and crossed his arms defensively. "I knew you could handle her."

"I could! But that doesn't mean I want to listen to her talk about how everyone in... _your_ family is a cheater, and what an indiscriminate slut _you are_!" she whispered angrily, all too aware that this was not a page from their script.

"Wow, she really said that? About everyone? Even Mom?"

Claire nodded, not quite sure where he was going with this.

"She's completely insane," Peter said, looking impressed against his will.

"She is," Claire agreed. Not willing to let the issue drop, she looked up at him sternly. "Now tell me what your damage is."

He fixed her with a fractious look, unwillingly undercut with vulnerability. "You don't trust me."

"Is this going to be a thing?" Furious, she stepped into his space, pushing at his chest hard enough to force him to step back. "I do trust you! I _married_ you!"

Peter shook his head. "You didn't know what you were signing. Mom just roped you into her scheme."

"What, like she didn't manipulate you?" she asked bluntly. "You didn't do anything wrong, you don't get to take the blame. We are in this together. And _yes_ ," her tone softened, and she took his hands, looking up into to his eyes with surety, willing him to believe her, "I _trust_ you."

He still didn't look like he believed her, but he nodded falteringly, at least agreeing for the moment.

"So," Claire said. "We did our job. Can we go now?"

Peter pulled on her hands, bringing her forward to wrap his arms around her, chin nudging against her forehead.

"Yeah," he mumbled into her hair. "Let's go."

Claire shifted, pressing her face against his shoulder, pretending this was a celebratory hug like those they had shared at the end of their other missions. She frowned deeply at that weakness, but indulged just a second longer.

She stepped back, and looked out to the sea. "Did you learn anything on your end?"

Peter carefully looped his arm through hers, and, eyes on their interlaced fingers, started the walk back to the family beach house. Claire drifted behind for a moment before letting herself naturally synchronize with his steps.

"I think we may be luckier than we thought. Evan Clark just talked with Julian Andres yesterday. Our first victims really are on vacation in Bimini."

"That's awesome! Wait, so no one has died yet?" Claire couldn't prevent the grin that split her face.

"You're forgetting about her victims in Paris," Peter reminded her.

"No, but. Well, yeah, okay, I did forget. But no one has died on _our_ watch. We're totally going to save the Holverwells and end this!" she said, bouncing a little on each step she took.

"Sure," Peter nodded, trying unsuccessfully to resist her enthusiasm.

They managed to pass to the edge of the party in giddy silence, Peter throwing a few casual waves to the old friends he had been talking to during Claire's adventures. Tantalized by the scent of cleaner air, although rationally Claire knew the party itself was no more stifling than the stretch of empty sand laying before her, Claire was disappointed to feel Peter halt beside her.

"Leaving so soon?" asked Mitzy with a catty smirk.

Claire felt the coiled strength in Peter's arm, and glanced up to see a cheerfully threatening smile spread across his lips.

"Claire told me some of what you two talked about, so I thought she deserved an evening where I made it up to her."

Mitzy's expression flickered as she processed what he said. Clearly she neither expected acknowledgment of her slurs against the Petrellis, nor acceptance of them from Peter.

"Oh, well. I'm glad to hear that!" she said, baffled.

"It really is a shame we didn't get a chance to talk more, Mitzy." Peter turned to leave, guiding Claire to come with him. She kept her head turned, watching Mitzy's relieved expression, and anticipating the very blow she knew Peter was plotting. As if on cue, Peter paused, and turned back to add, "I'll be sure to give your regards to my mother."

Claire tried very, very hard not to laugh as all of the blood drained from Mitzy's face. Well. That wasn't true. But it would have been far more polite than what Claire _did_ do.

Jay, as was his apparent habit, stood a few paces back from Mitzy, chuckling at her horror. He patted her back, while offering a simultaneously entertained and exasperated look at Peter.

Showing no remorse whatsoever, Peter inclined his head at Jay in farewell. Claire supposed that he must have smoothed over whatever issues he had with Jay, since rather than getting another dig in, Peter graciously offered, "And Jay, if Allison starts enabling again, send her over my way, and I'll set her straight. I've been there!"

"I will!" Jay replied, trying to look innocent as Mitzy shrugged off his hand.

The walk back to the house was an exuberant one. Night had fallen some time ago, and the waves rippled under the diffuse lights of the houses they passed. The moon was a small sliver in the sky, but it still felt breathlessly close.

Claire skipped ahead several paces, gleeful at escaping that party, feeling accomplished and optimistic. Peter stopped, stock-still and allowed distance to draw their arms taut before swinging her into the waves, giggling and shrieking.

Advancing on him, she kicked sea water at him, muscles tensed to dodge his next move even as she watched him sputter. In an instant, however, Peter disappeared, and she felt his arms wrap around her from behind. She threw all of her weight forward, but that was no competition for the pull of gravity as Peter tumbled them both into the surf.

Gasping as the cool waves dashed against her heated skin, Claire wrestled Peter beneath her, holding his shoulders down into the quickly dissolving bank of sand. Grinning, he reached up to rest a hand on the soaked and crumpled fabric clinging to her hip.

"Are you trying to drown me?" he asked.

Lifting a hand from his shoulder, she splashed more water from the incoming tide onto him.

"What, the all powerful Peter Petrelli can't handle a little water?" she mocked.

But Peter's eyes were glinting with triumph that she has risen to his bait. He seized her free hand, pulling her in close enough that her water bedraggled hair formed a curtain around their faces. His other hand came up, warm against her neck and Claire shivered.

"What are you doing?" she whispered, breaths coming fast and fevered. "This is terrible revenge."

Peter smiled, eyes drifting toward Claire's lips. Quietly, he asked, "It's revenge?"

"Yes," she nodded firmly. "Like this!"

Claire broke Peter's grip on her hand, and scooped a large handful of sand to smear into his hair. Then she was up like a shot, dashing the final stretch toward their house. The long grass threshed against her bare legs as she pelted to the back door – which was, as Peter has promised, far more ornate than the front door – collapsing against it to hold it shut once she was inside.

Peter, cheater that he was, teleported in right in front of her. He held out her unworn red shoes, dangling from the straps wound around his fingertips.

"You dropped these," he said helpfully.

"Oh, I see. That's why I beat your slow behind all the way over here." Peter's eyebrow lifted at her phrasing and she consciously ignored it. "You were too _weighed down_ to run."

Peter leaned in close, about to say something. Claire was still breathing hard, smile tugging at her lips, eyes locked with his. He let the moment hang there, long hair drifting into his bright eyes. Claire wanted to push it out of his face. To lean in, get him to whisper that warm secret in her ear.

He pulled back, shaking his head in disbelief at himself.

"Right. I'm going to go upstairs. Clean all this up," he said jerkily, gesturing to his hair. "It's been a long day."

Claire's mouth felt dry. She hugged herself, fighting disappointment. "Yeah. A long day."

Peter turned abruptly, and made his way to the stairs, trailing sand across the wooden floor. Pulling a face, Claire glanced down at her own sand dusted feet. She sincerely hoped Peter came with a sweeping power of some sort.

Claire could hear a shower running upstairs, but could also tell from the direction of the sound that it didn't emanate from the bathroom attached to the master bedroom. She wasn't even really sure that the old bedrooms reserved for Peter and Nathan didn't have their own bathrooms each.

Of course they did. What kind of vacation would it be if family members had to see each other every day?

Wound up, confused from the day of ups and downs, Claire turned the water up scaldingly hot as she stepped into her own shower. The tingle of pain washing over her skin and just as quickly fading as she healed gave her something to focus on as she scrubbed the frustration away.

It wasn't the mission that was hard. It wasn't being around Peter that was hard. It was wanting to be around _her_ Peter, wanting their old relationship, and knowing each minute they spent together as the new Peter and Claire put it even further into the past. _That_ was hard.

Sighing, Claire turned the water down to a more normal temperature. She would just have to try harder. Peter was in there, and she had seen him today – more of him than she had seen in months. And despite her frustration, despite never knowing quite which Peter she would be dealing with, she was still excited by this mission in a way that she never thought she would be.

She had missed him.

Claire stepped out of the shower, dried off, somehow managed to find her camisole and shorts among the mess of clothes on the floor, and was just wrapping her hair in a towel when Peter knocked on the door.

"I'm decent," she called.

He poked his head around the edge of the door, cautious despite her assurance, before stepping fully into the room. He was dressed in a t-shirt and pair of pajama pants that she was almost one hundred percent sure he didn't actually sleep in.

He tilted his head at her, and jerked his chin toward her hair drying effort. "You know what's a really terrible and inappropriate abuse of power? Nuclear hairdryer."

Dropping the towel on the floor – and oh, cleaning was going to be fun tomorrow – Claire inclined her head.

"Really? That seems totally appropriate and normal to me."

Peter waved her to sit on the edge of the bed, and channeled Ted to allow the slightest white glow of his hands. He threaded his hands gently through her hair, never applying more power than absolutely necessary.

"Is this going to give me a brain tumor?" Claire asked.

Peter finished drying her hair, wrapping one last, long strand around a finger and flashing heat through it to curl it instantaneously, despite Claire’s glare of warning. He cut off the flow of power and carefully tucked her hair behind her ears.

"Probably. It's too low level to cut out your power, though. It heals before it gets started, really."

His fingertips were still playing with the curled lock of her hair. Letting it fall, Peter said, "I just wanted to come and tell you good night."

"You're staying here, right?" Claire blurted, finally voicing the anxiety had that haunted her all afternoon

"What?" Peter stuck out a thumb, gesturing vaguely toward the door. "I'm staying in my old room. Did you think I was teleporting back to my apartment?"

Flushing, Claire looked down. She lied, "No."

"Night, Claire," he laughed.

Peter was half way out the door when Claire looked up abruptly.

"We made contact!" she called to him.

Looking very much like a lawyer hoping the prosecution would forget a vital piece of evidence, Peter halted in the doorway.

"We made contact. That means Fusor might be stalking us even now."

"So?"

Getting up from the bed, she walked to the head and turned down the covers. Looking back at Peter levelly, she concluded, "So you owe me a wedding night."


	6. Chapter 6

Peter changed lanes with deft, aggressive precision. Top down, their MG – a green blur waving a banner of blond hair against the woods lining the road – darted nimbly past a boxy, ugly, pragmatic minivan on the way back in to the city. The wind whipped hair into both of their faces, stinging them with their victory.

Lowering his shades, Peter caught Claire's eye, and flashed Monica's impish grin at her. Eyes on his, Claire laughed wildly. She slid her hand against the edge of her lowered window, feeling the heat of the engine thrum through her palm. She exhaled deeply, letting the engine set the pace of her heart; from Peter's smirk, she knew he was as well.

At the same time, they turned back to the road. He shifted gears sharply, accelerating down the clear stretch of highway.

The New York skyline dominated the distance. The glint of rear windows gave hint to the jammed, beleaguered traffic awaiting them back in the city, beyond the shadow mottled copse of trees.

Ignoring what lay ahead, Claire couldn't resist casting a sidelong glance at Peter. She watched his graceful hands play lightly over the wheel. A breathless smile curving her lips, she settled on her side to watch him. Even with his eyes on the road, Claire knew Peter was sharing the thrill with her. She could feel a predatory tension stretched taut between them as the pair anticipated the next car that dared slow them.

However, the ominous shine of cars in the distance began to coalesce into the density of gridlock before they could claim their next victim. Peter eased into a lower gear, palm caressing the stick as they slowed. Oddly disappointed, Claire shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

Scrunching her face, she quietly dug in her purse for a brush. Running it through her hair, she spent the rest of the trip into the city untangling snarls the wind had caused. She peered at the side mirror as she tugged briskly at her curls, working to erase their joyous ride from her appearance. Focused solely on her reflection, Claire did an admirable job of suppressing the feeling of unfinished business.

It wasn't until they were in Manhattan that she finally realized her right foot was pressed against an imaginary accelerator.

Not too much later, Peter smoothly eased into a reserved space in front of the Kirby Plaza offices – one that was undoubtedly reserved for someone higher up in the Company. Or officially affiliated, for that matter.

When Claire raised an eyebrow at his presumption, he just gave a nonchalant shrug back. It simply wasn't the Petrelli way to assume special treatment was _not_ intended for them.

Exiting the car, Claire realized that they cut fine figures not merely of Petrellis, but just the kind of indolent rich Long Islanders they masqueraded as: Peter in never before worn khakis and a pale blue polo shirt Claire had teased him endlessly about as they dressed, and Claire herself in one of Angela's sun dresses – scarlet and pink this time – and the same red heels she failed to wear at the beach party.

Peter locked the MG with a casual wave of the remote toward the car, although the top remained contrarily down.

Opening the glass doors at the Kirby building for Claire, Peter paused to push his sunglasses on to his head and survey her outfit appreciatively, his attention lingering on the slick red of her shoes.

"Eyes up," Claire joked, smirking as he winked at her.

The cavernous space was busy as always. Lit with harsh, industrial fluorescence, the be-suited workers milling before the security gates appeared as nothing more than corporate automatons. Which, Claire considered, did tend to be beneficial for the entire super secret conspiracy angle. But today, something more was going on. The light didn't mask the details of the faces she looked into. Instead, it seemed to furrow stress lines deeper, cast them into even darker tones of gray than usual.

Feeling the mood of the room, Claire felt her shared exuberance with Peter put them into a surreal bubble. She felt off balance, unsure if her feelings were the unreal ones, or if the catastrophe the agents were no doubt striding purposefully toward containing was the fiction.

Drifting toward the security station, she noticed it was fully manned for once. Peter strode up to the nearest guard, and Claire shivered involuntarily as she felt the man turn hostile attention on them both.

"I remember you," the guard before the elevator bank said, narrowing his eyes at Peter.

Taken aback, Peter looked down. He mumbled, "Yeah. I ... sorry about that."

He didn't even attempt presenting his Company ID – a good choice, given the nasty red "VOID" stamp marring it in large letters. Claire sighed, presenting her own ID while fumbling in her purse for a pen to officially sign Peter in. The guard huffed impatiently, and agents behind them shifted with a kind of subtle tension that prickled along Claire's neck.

Sharing a curious look with Peter, she backed out of the line and waved the others through as she filled out the overly complicated, flimsy carbon form. Finally, she finished. The guard scrutinized the white, yellow, and pink, muttering something about specials and windows and how he'll be prepared next time, before filing each form carefully in his pockets and waving them through with a glare.

"Hospitality certainly hasn't improved," Peter murmured uneasily.

Claire reached down to grasp his hand, and he gave her a grateful smile. Together, they walked into the milling smattering of Company agents, security guards, and accountants waiting for an elevator appearance.

They were all drearily outfitted for whichever crisis seemed to be plucking at Company nerves, but Claire picked out one particular form, in a bright blue dress that complemented her dark skin, that stood out from the rest. She had to wonder, then, if Nathan's theory that Peter used powers to compensate for missing a person was actually true; it seemed far more likely that it resembled a bizarre, heretofore unknown summoning power.

"Monica!" Peter called to her, letting go of Claire's hand.

Monica turned quickly in place. A dazzling smile lit her face as she replied, "Peter! Oh my God, I haven't seen you in a dog's age! How the hell are you?"

 _Apparently_ , Claire thought, _she's in our bubble._

In unconscious kinesthetic harmony, she reached out to take Peter's hand just as he raised it to tug her into a hug with a cute, perfectly balanced spin.

Suddenly winded, Claire felt frozen, weighed down by the abrupt gravity of jealousy. She stilled her own movements to greet Monica.

Peter dipped Monica back from the embrace to smile down at her.

"Better," he answered simply.

Monica gave him a quick, encouraging squeeze before stepping back to notice Claire. Peter's hand remained on her hip.

"Hey," Claire offered flatly.

Monica blinked in surprise, but her smile remained undimmed.

"Hey, yourself! What brings y'all in? I thought you were off the circuit."

Claire fought the urge to bristle. She wasn't _off the circuit_. It's just that not everyone had time for vigilantism as a career.

"I was, for a while. You know how that all went down," Peter acknowledged as Monica nodded sympathetically; Claire suppressed a growl at his candor. "This is my first mission back, actually."

"Oh, is it? Congrats on being back, then!"

"It's good to be back."

Peter slid his hand up from Monica's hip to tickle lightly at her ribs, and she shied away with a laugh. As Monica danced back, she almost stepped on an agent's foot – who startled and fixed the group with a resentful glare. Miraculously, Monica remained clear of doing any damage.

Peter and Monica, from the first time they met, had a particular understanding of each other, despite the scarcity of their actual meetings. Claire remembered Peter trying to explain it to her, trying to get across how much more out of control mimicry felt than any other kind of power. Owning that power, playing with it, was something important to both of them. She recalled them dancing at Molly's birthday party once, and demonstrating hand to hand for new recruits. She did _not_ recall "playing" ever being like this.

"How about you? Taking a break from fighting crime?" she asked, going for polite interest. And she was interested. She liked Monica. That made the situation even more excruciating.

"Oh, no! Niki is holding down the fort, but I'm only here until PR loosens up."

Peter and Claire shared a look.

"So, forever?" Peter offered.

Monica laughed, showing white, straight teeth as she smiled widely.

"They ain't been that bad! They're just a little worried about the movie. You see, Micah found out about a couple of guys on the net who've been researching St. Joan, and they put together a little documentary thing for Sundance or Slamdance or Tabledance or whatever. A film festival. The Company is sitting on 'em to prevent it from happening, but Niki and I think it'd actually be good PR and make the NOLA police cut me a little slack."

"Super hero and movie star, eh?" Peter asked softly. "You're amazing, you know that?"

Monica blushed, but wouldn't keep the compliment for herself, "Ain't that what we're all here for?"

"But not all of us have fans clamoring for autographs." Claire felt a pit form in her stomach at his words, jealousy taking on a new dimension. "Admit it, you love it," he urged, nudging Monica's hip with his own.

"Well... okay. I do! And, speaking of," Monica said, turning to look at Claire warmly, "did May like the St. Joan photo?"

All Claire could do was nod, raising her hand as she lost the battle against covering her face in mortification.

Stepping away from Peter with two clicks that echoed on the marble floor, Monica grasped Claire’s hand to stare at in shock.

"Oh my God, girl! Why didn’t you say something? I’m going on for an hour about me, and you’re standing here _married_. When did you do it? Did your dad freak out?" Monica said in a rush.

"Dad’s fine with it," Claire lied. "But he’s mad that he missed the ceremony. It was just a few weeks ago, in Thailand, and Peter and I have been considering having a second one just for friends and family since it’s been _such_ a thing. Isn’t that right, honey?"

Peter, always at the ready for their cover story, returned to Claire’s side. Standing behind her, he laced their hands together and rested their joined hands on Claire’s stomach. The surreality, the excitation from earlier returned with a vengeance and Claire's breath caught in her throat. She twisted her hand under Peter's, scratching lightly at his wrist to inform him that, although he was playing along, he was not forgiven. Claire forced herself to rest her head on his shoulder, and could swear she felt his pulse quicken.

"It is. You can imagine how angry Mom was about all this," Peter said to Monica.

She nodded jerkily, eyes wide.

"Are you still… I mean, I thought you two were r―" Monica cut herself off, dismissing the ridiculous thought. With a firm shake of her head, she clearly decided she was remembering wrong. Smiling unsurely, she offered, "Well, congratulations again! I’m glad to have both of you back, and I wish you the best!"

"Thank you," Claire said, suppressing the rush of triumph she felt at the words.

Behind them, in the world where Company agents breathed in color and breathed out stale gray, an elevator opened. Sensing that this was a good time for a graceful exit, Monica excused herself, "I gotta run. But it was great seeing you guys again!"

She hurried away, leaving Claire in the uncomfortable temptation of Peter's arms. It was not Monica she was angry with, but the feelings coursing in her veins did nothing to make the idea of pulling away from Peter appealing. Peter's thumb stroked across the back of her hand, feeling her tension, trying to soothe it away, but the only effect was winding Claire's nerves even tighter.

Claire couldn't say that it wasn't a relief when another, empty elevator opened and they had to part to enter. They rode in silence for ten floors, Claire feeling the combined tension of the Company itself binding to the unresolved issues between her and Peter. At the same time, Peter was maddeningly calm. He watched the ever changing floor number with a self-satisfied smile, just waiting for her words.

"What was that?" Claire asked evenly.

"That was talking to Monica."

"Since when do you talk that much with your hands?"

"Since Monica's secretly my cousin?"

"You _really_ aren't funny, you know."

Peter plastered a too innocent look on to his face and that was _it_. Claire snapped, turning on her heel to push him hard, into the elevator wall. His head connected with a grimly satisfying thump, and he let a not so innocent groan escape.

Claire's pumps earned their price tag, allowing her to stalk into his comfort zone and maintain eye contact.

"I really hate mind games, Peter."

"Then you married into the wrong family," he quipped, earning himself another shove.

Claire seized on that, trying to prevent the angry tears welling up, "Marriage is a partnership, and I thought you remembered what being partners was like. You trusted me to do my job, and I _trusted_ you not to play games with me!"

"Hey," Peter reached out, fingertips light against her sides, "I didn't mean it that way, Claire. I was trying to be friendly. It's been a long time since I've seen Monica, and it really wasn't under the best circumstances. I like knowing I haven't ruined everything with her."

"That's not an answer! _Are_ we partners? _Are_ you playing a game?"

"I didn't answer because that's not the real issue," he replied mildly. Forestalling Claire's wrath, he continued with clear, solemn eyes, "But we are. And I'm not."

Claire crossed her arms, unsatisfied. "And what is the issue?"

"The issue is that _you_ ," Peter said, palms flattening against her sides to shake her gently, "are amazing, too."

"You aren't getting an autograph," she joked weakly.

Leaning forward, Peter's lips grazed against her ear as he murmured, "I can be very persuasive."

Claire wound a hand into his long hair, holding him in place while she raised her mouth to his ear. "I know you can. How about a trade?"

She released him. There was a smudge of lipstick on his earlobe, and the irises of his eyes were hazel slivers around blown out pupils. He grinned at her suggestion.

"My autograph for another St. Joan seems fair," Claire taunted.

Peter's face fell, mouth pursed in vexation.

The elevator dinged. The doors began to slide open. Claire tried to pull back to exit, but Peter held her fast, keeping her gaze as the warmth from his palms seeped through the thin material of her dress.

A pair of agents lingered at the threshold of the elevator, unsure if Peter and Claire were leaving. Smiling viciously, Claire lifted a hand to thumb the button to keep the door open. With her left hand, she pressed Peter flat against the wall once more.

Peter raised an eyebrow at her, removing his left hand from her side to cover her hand, his ring making contact against hers. The innocent expression she loathed appeared once more, presumably for the benefit of the agents.

Claire's eyes fluttered shut before she remembered herself, and gave him an admonishing glare.

"Peter, the next time you want me to bang you up against a wall," the look in Peter's eyes flickered at her deliberate phrasing, "just _ask_ me."

As she walked away, the agents parting warily to allow her through, Claire heard Peter's head thud once more against the wall.

In contrast to the security in the building's entranceway, the security before the executive office was quite lax – insofar as it consisted entirely of Angela's assistant, who readily waved the two of them in with a curt two fingered gesture as he berated someone through his Bluetooth headset.

Past the mahogany double doors, Angela sat at the desk, in a black suit and white pearls. She was signing papers, unconcerned by the flurry of activity beyond her office. She laid down her pen at their entrance, and stood, smoothing her skirt as she did so.

Feeling riled, but awkward, Claire could only trail Peter as he went to give his mother a cursory hug. When Angela drew away she, as so many people did now, examined Peter, looking for any signs of improvement. Of which, in Claire's opinion, there were many. He was still pale, still thinner than usual. But the dark circles around his eyes were gone – talking with Nathan the day before and then talking with Claire, expressing the frustrations of his recovery had eased enough of his troubles that he slept the full night through.

With an unreadable expression, Angela turned her scrutiny to Claire, making her twitch. Nodding to herself, she made a judgment Claire _really_ didn't want to know about. Angela waved elegantly for them to join her at her desk.

They sat in the slightly uncomfortable, slightly too low chairs; Peter with attentive posture and a sly, mischievous smile that kept pulling at his lips and Claire with ire she silently repressed by sinking her finger nails into the leather armrests of her seat.

"I received your report," Angela began without ceremony. "We had been aware that Fusor was posing as service staff while she scouted victims, but not which exact company she worked for. It's possible that she just steals a uniform for whichever one is employed at the party she wishes to go to, but we'd rather remove guess work from our plans."

"So you know which party she's hired for next?" Claire assumed.

Angela nodded, shuffling papers on her desk to retrieve another folder. Passing it to Peter, she continued, "One this Friday and another on Saturday. Given that you managed to thoroughly offend and unsettle the Reeds," Claire frowned and her eyes darted to Peter for an explanation; he mouthed "Mitzy" in return, "the wine tasting party that Ellen Hyun is hosting is the one you will be attending on Saturday."

Peter tilted his head, pondering his mother's possible agenda. He asked, "So we have a week with nothing to do out at the beach?"

Angela removed a stylus from the laptop in front of her and swiveled the screen half way toward the pair. It displayed a grayscale, multi-angle look at a quaint, terminally cluttered office. With a keystroke, Angela set the camera time stamp back two days, to the evening of the party Claire and Peter had attended. A click and the picture began to move.

"This is the Registry Committee's office in the city. We put it under surveillance when we submitted proof of your marriage and your 'dilatory domicile'. And this," she paused the recording at the exact moment a dark haired woman eased into the office through a window and circled the indistinct figure with her stylus, "is your target."

"It worked," Claire breathed, staring at the screen. Up until now, single encounter with Fusor notwithstanding, the danger of the mission had been pleasantly theoretical.

"Yes, Claire. And she is very interested in you both. She was questioning all of the staff at the catering company about the Petrellis. Specifically _you_."

"Wait, you have other agents working this?" Claire asked indignantly. She looked over at Peter, wondering if he had known, but his expression was completely flat as he watched the interplay between Claire and his mother.

"Oh no, dear. _I_ monitored Fusor personally," Angela smiled; Claire shivered. Pleasantly, Angela continued, "So you see, the week before the party is the most important. Fusor has taken the bait, so you must be a perfect couple and do nothing to dissuade her from stalking you."

"We already have the invitation?" Peter asked, unfazed. Claire sent a disconcerted look his way, but his attention remained on Angela.

"Of course." Angela stood, beckoning them to do so as well. As she led them back to the door, Angela added, "And Claire, if you dislike the clothes I picked out for you, just charge any other purchases to the Company."

Angela closed the door behind them, and her assistant ushered them over to open doors of the waiting elevator. Once inside, Claire turned to Peter.

"Okay," she said, elongating the vowel, "that was weird. Tell me that was weird."

Peter leaned back against the door, shrugging slightly against the mirrored surface, "It was Mom."

Claire slapped at him lightly until he moved, "Don't stand there! Immortality only goes so far."

Once he repositioned in the corner of the elevator, she returned to her previous point, "You really don't think your mother calling us all the way in to the city to tell us that we are _completely unnecessary_ for this mission is weird?"

"Claire, I don't know what you thought this mission was about, but it was never important," Peter said bluntly. "Just look at the Company today! It's in a total meltdown. Probably has been since yesterday, with whatever Nathan had to do. Do they want us to help? No. Will they even tell us what's going on? No.

" _Our_ mission is entirely about Mom proving to the rest of the Company that her son is still an asset and doesn't need to be put down. Can you really be surprised that she's keeping us in training wheels for it?"

"But why call us in? Why is Angela the one personally monitoring Fusor? I mean, I know you're her favorite and all, but she doesn't love you _that_ much."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Thanks."

"You know what I mean!"

"If she had agents follow Fusor physically, instead of following Fusor astrally herself, then they'd have to pay the agents. If they pay the agents, there's a paper trail and then Bob finds out they had to help us on the mission, and I'm back to being Elle's favorite toy in lock up," he explained.

Claire seethed at the mention of Elle. After his flirtation earlier with Monica, she really didn't need to be hearing about his exes.

"It's more than that," she argued. "Angela put _us_ on _this_ mission for a reason. How can that not scare you?"

"Because I don't automatically assume the worst about my family, Claire," Peter snapped. He shifted against the wall, eyes drifting away. He was keeping something from her.

Claire balled her hands in anger, feeling her pulse pound as her fingernails dug into the the soft flesh of her palms. Then, just as suddenly, she unclenched one hand, thrusting it out at Peter.

"Give me the keys," she demanded. "You're teleporting home."

He dug in his pocket and tossed the keys to her.

"See you tonight," he smarmed, and then blinked out.

Claire glowered darkly at her reflection in the elevator wall. She really had married into the wrong family.

 

 

 

The drive over to Reed St. was considerably less exhilarating than the drive in had been. Claire sweltered in the jammed, midday traffic even with the top up. She picked indelicately at her dress, sticking to her in the smoggy heat, as she slumped forward against the wheel, surveying the taxi crested flood of congestion before her.

The situation did nothing to soothe her temper, and by the time she arrived at Mohinder's lab she was sweaty, miserable, and in possession of twelve even _better_ rejoinders that she could have said to Peter to win their argument.

Rehearsing a withering glare for later that evening, she was nearly in the loft before the multitude of people crowded inside registered.

Muffled, distressed voices became distinct as she opened the door –  this time unladen by coffee since she had opted to cut one less frustration out of her day, Mohinder's inevitable disappointment losing out against angry, caffeine deprived New Yorkers.

"– is not even legal!" shouted Matt, looking unsure of his words even as he said them.

"Oh," Nathan replied, looking rumpled and tired, "but it is. In fact, it's what _you_ – and Doctor Suresh – have been doing all this time that's illegal."

Mohinder, who up until that moment had been out of the room, chose to poke his head back in to warn them both, "I'd really prefer if Molly didn't hear this conversation."

With that, Claire finally had a better sense of what was going on. In the old bedroom area, she could see Molly happily working away at her homework, headphones shielding her from the turmoil brewing with her family. Mohinder stood watch in the doorway, eyes locked with Matt until the psychic got the message and nodded, chagrined. Mohinder left to stand behind Molly, checking over her work as she did it, hand reached out to lightly touch her shoulder, as if reassuring himself that she was still there.

Matt paced back and forth across the explosion in agitation, alternately casting looks at Molly and Mohinder, and watching Nathan, who completely ignored Matt in favor of making a phone call. Everyone in the group looked harried and exhausted. Claire guiltily reexamined her reasoning for foregoing a coffee run.

Almost overwhelmed by the invasion, Claire's eyes sought out a familiar fixture of the lab, finding Maya sitting anxiously by the computer – in no way quelled by the figure perched next to her on the desk. _Elle_.

The sympathy she had for the group evaporated in an instant as she stared at the svelte, well-dressed blonde. Claire heard blood thump in her ears as her eyes trailed down Elle's long legs to a sharp pair black of shoes she was more than half sure Peter had picked out himself. They suited her.

Elle leaned over to Maya, awkwardly patting her on the shoulder as she said, "Buck up! I'm sure we'll kill them all before they can take you!"

"That is very ... reassuring," Maya said with a strained smile, as she smoothly removed Elle's hand. She gave it a squeeze, and then drop it, neatly avoiding overt rejection.

Feeling her earlier jealousy bubble up into resentment full force, Claire had to look away. Marching over to Matt, Claire snagged his arm and halted his attempt to scuff the explosion into invisibility.

"Want to tell me what's going on?"

Matt looked down at her, bemused. His head was tilted, exposing the obvious and irritating use of his ability.

"Didn't you just come from the Company? Same thing as there."

Claire withdrew her hand from his arm to cross her arms as she sniped, "Angela wasn't feeling very chatty."

"Okay," he said, raising his hands as he backed away slightly."Just thought someone would have filled you in. What's going on is that the NSA decided to make a move against the Company by going after Molly."

"Can they do that?" Claire gasped.

"Yes, and," Matt hushed his voice, glancing back to where Molly and Mohinder dueled with pencils over her mathematics homework. "And they're looking to do it to Maya and Mohinder, too."

"Deportation?"

"Deportation for them, probably some kind of group home for Molly – because it's not enough that they're saying she wasn't adopted legally," Claire bit her tongue to prevent herself from saying Molly _wasn't_ ; it's not like she wasn't standing in a glass house herself, "No, of course not! They're claiming she's delinquent, too, and want to shove her into a halfway house where they can quietly take her to a frigging black site or something to track terrorists!"

"That's insane! How is she so calm?" Claire asked, sure of the answer already.

"She doesn't know. And she won't know."

"Unless soldiers break in, shoot everyone, and kidnap her, of course," chimed in Elle.

Nathan shut his phone with a click and strode over to glare at Elle with special disdain.

"That," he began, pointing at her with the slim edge of his phone, "is what we are here to prevent. Remember? You guard. They don't incriminate themselves doing silly things like defending themselves." And then, just noticing Claire, he added, "Claire. When did you get here?"

"Just now. Seriously, you guys are here to prevent soldiers shooting everyone? _How?_ Elle zaps them while you fly Molly away? Wouldn't that still leave Maya and Mohinder to get killed?"

"That," Nathan enunciated with a stubborn expression more suited to Peter, "was not the plan."

"That was Plan C," said Matt, tersely eyeing Nathan, as if worried he would reignite a previous argument. "Plan A was that I put all of them in a coma for a couple of days until we sort this out, but that was _stupid_."

"Yeah, Parkman, you did have a point there. I can see how completely effective, silent, secret, non-violent plans are 'stupid'," grumbled Nathan, the shift away from first names showing just how irritated Nathan was. Claire wondered if he'd slept at all between when she'd seen him at the beach house, and now.

"And Plan B?" Claire asked.

"The one that's actually working," Nathan replied. "I just talked to Marty Jameson. I worked with him in the DA's office and he owed me a few favors. He's going to audit Molly's adoption papers and Mohinder and Maya's visas – make sure they're above board now even if they weren't always."

"Which is completely unnecessary. Company paper work is always above board, because it's always _real_ ," Elle said, focusing an intense look on Claire on the last word.

"And what would you know about that?" Claire asked. Stiffening defensively, Claire very deliberately crossed her arms, displaying her rings. If Elle thought she could unnerve Claire with intimations about Company machinations, she was dead wrong

Eyes still on Claire's rings, Elle said, "Oh, I think I know a few things. I could give you some pointers!"

"I'm sure we'd all be interested, Elle," Nathan said dryly as he watched their interplay. Clearly dismissing it as something he _really_ didn't want to deal with, he explained, "There are some things we really, really don't need the US government to know. One is how deep the Company's influence really goes. The fact that they think the Company is amateurish enough to fake visas is good. If they find out that the Company can get real ones with the snap of its fingers we are, not to put it too mildly, _fucked_."

"Wait," Matt broke in, "so what you're really doing is taking real documents and making them fake, only to make them real again?"

Nathan rolled his eyes. "No. I'm making them real via different people, so that we can claim it's a coincidence that you all happen to be connected to the Company. Marty's already got Molly exclusively into Matt's custody. Since you've never been part of the Company, Matt, I don't think they'll look that much harder at that."

"So, the shooting?" Claire asked, just making sure that was really off the table.

"Hyperbole, Miss Cheer USA. If someone was going to get shot, I'd be the first to call you!" Elle snapped.

Nathan rubbed a hand across his face, and stepped between Claire and Elle, giving them both stern looks as he said, "This is not what we need right now. For now, we're done. Elle, I want you to stay here and guard Mohinder and Maya. Claire, just do your job. And Matt?" he asked, eyebrow raised, "Why don't you take Molly home? Read her a story or something."

Matt nodded, but his eyes were fixed on Claire and Elle. More specifically, on Claire's hand.

"So it's true?" he blurted and Claire felt a brief stab of longing for Nassau, where everyone was happy to take the cover story at face value.

"Yes, it's true," answered Elle, a vicious smirk on her face. "Daddy decided the best way to keep Peter from killing us all _again_ was to keep him ... distracted."

"Bob decided?" Claire asked, tapping a finger against her lip. "No, that doesn't sound like him. Not enough little girls electrocuting themselves into a coma for him."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. It's just a matter of time before before Peter gets bored of you, forgets himself, and fries someone. Might as well be you." Elle slid over the desk, stepping around Nathan and slinking into Claire's personal space; Claire shivered with anticipation. With fake concern, she added, "But if you really want to keep him interested, I could show you this thing I always did with my tongue..."

Claire took a step closer to Elle, her thumb worrying across the very big diamond on her left hand as she flexed her fingers. Maya caught the movement and stood, saying, "I think that I will go to tell Doctor Suresh the good news."

Maya brushed past Matt and Nathan into the next room, and they watched the conflict with wary interest. Matt tried to defuse the tension – or at least realign it – by asking Nathan, "And you're okay with this?"

Nathan sighed, getting a look on his face not unlike the one he had when talking to Claire about Peter just a day ago. Except, this time it was about her, ignoring her presence as she stood only a foot away. Already tense from the entire day, Claire felt a sudden flash of anger wind her even tighter

"It's just to keep them out of the way," Nathan said, looking somewhat displeased. "Can you imagine the trouble if the government started caring about Claire's adoption records? That's precedent to take us all down, right there. And better Peter being with Claire rather than with some random agent. Or, God forbid, alone."

"Stop it!" Claire shouted, throwing up her hands. "Just stop it!"

In the other room, she could see three heads turn. Molly, headphoneless now that the danger had passed, stared at Claire and pulled at Mohinder's hand to get him to explain. Maya shaded her eyes in embarrassment, too fond of Claire to want to watch.

"Despite what you may think, despite what you may _want_ , Nathan, Peter is actually getting better. He doesn't need you. He doesn't need you watching him every step of the way and holding him back just so that you can feel superior.

"And our mission is a _real_ mission. People have died, and we're on the clock trying to save more from dying. So I'm sorry, Elle, that you can't decide whether still want to fuck Peter, or just to kill him, but you're not married to him. I am. So let me do my damn mission my way!"

"Oh!" Elle replied perkily. "So _he's_ shown you the thing he does with _his_ tongue. But then, I guess that's not so special for you after your little girlfriend. I wonder, does Daddy think Peter is a step up or down from her? Probably down, because I can just _imagine_ the thoughts he had about that girl being with _his_ 'Clairebear.'"

Claire was done talking. Her left fist connected with Elle's cheekbone almost before she finished on breathy, singularly disgusting note. The diamond on her engagement ring raked viciously across Elle's cheek, wringing a gasping cry from her. The gouge was deep, blood streaming vividly into Elle's pale hair as she went down. Electricity crackled instinctively from her fingertips as she fought back, but Claire held on, the acrid smell of her own flesh barely worth registering.

She pulled back for another punch, and felt a large hand seize her wrist.

"This isn't productive, Claire. _Elle_ is here for a reason," Nathan said, emphasis hitting Claire like a sucker punch.

The moment went cold, and Claire pulled back, allowing Nathan to gently restrain her. She stared at the crackling, bloody mess on the floor. Elle flipped her hair back, glaring harshly up at Claire. Her lips curled in a snarl over red stained teeth, looking more wounded than angry in the attempt. Distantly, Claire wondered if that's how Elle had looked at Peter when he turned on her.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.

"Whatever, Pom-poms. Get out of here before I fry you and your sugar daddy."

She heard Matt's hollow sounding voice belatedly attempt to mollify her bruised ego, "That's not a bad idea. Molly and I are going to head out, anyway, Claire. You can give us a little extra protection."

Stiffly, Claire nodded. The room came back into focus slowly, as the sudden shock of adrenaline cleared itself from her system. She watched Nathan flip his phone back open in annoyance, gesturing to everyone to carry on, that the crisis hadn't suddenly reasserted itself. She watched Mohinder trade Molly off to Matt, saying his good byes for the foreseeable future, but pretending they were just for the evening.

She watched Elle carefully pick herself up off the floor, trying not to wince and eyes subtly searching the room for something to staunch her wound with.

"Claire?" Matt called.

"Right," she said slowly. "Right, I'm coming!"

She wasn't the only one stalling, though. Molly, with all the put upon petulance of a thirteen year old had a tight grip in Mohinder's shirt.

"But _why_ aren't you coming home?" she whined.

"Molly," Mohinder said carefully as her pried her hands off, "I told you. I have to work with Maya, and it's going to take some time. I'll sleep here, and come home tomorrow, okay?"

"You _always_ work with Maya! Why should it take longer tonight?"

"We're working on something special tonight," Mohinder covered, with absolutely no finesse.

Taking the wrong implication from that, Molly looked down and stomped off to Matt's side with a final, "Fine!"

Claire joined them at the door, waving a barely acknowledged goodbye to Nathan. Mohinder and Maya were already back to work, heads together as they conferred over the computer.

Molly, throwing a petulant look back at Maya as they exited, mumbled, "Home wrecker."

Claire escorted the pair to a cab, even though she and Matt knew full well he could offer better protection to his daughter than Claire could. Once they were safely away, Claire braced herself for the unchanged traffic she would have to endure on the way back home. Gripping the wheel and staring down the road raged masses, the memory of a bruise on her hand made it the tiniest bit more tolerable

When she finally arrived back at the house, Claire felt as though the potential of entire day had been drained away from her, leaving the hollow waste of the events that had actually transpired. Listless, she tossed her purse to the ground as she entered.

And the stopped when she saw who awaited her in the living room.

"Peter?" she asked.

He looked up from the mission papers he was sorting through – probably dossiers on guests invited to Saturday's wine tasting. Standing, he strode over to her in three long paces. His hands came up to gently hold her crossed arms.

"You got sent home too, huh?" he asked.

Claire nodded, looking away in shame. "Yeah. I punched Elle."

Peter blinked in surprise. "Okay, we're coming back to that. First though, I need to tell you something." He waited for her eyes to find his, and then said firmly, "I'm sorry. I don't always mean to play mind games, but I don't want to do that with you so I need to stop myself."

Claire uncrossed her arms to pull him into a hug. She turned her face into his shoulder, saying into his shirt, "I'm sorry, too. I just... I'm sorry."

Claire felt Peter raise a hand to caress her hair, and pressed a quick kiss to her temple before breaking the embrace. One arm still around her waist, he guided her over to the couch.

"So, punching Elle?"


	7. Chapter 7

Warm breath tickled Claire's ear. She turned away from it, grumbling into her pillow, eyes sealed shut in the perfect darkness. Sweat dampened hair lifted away from her neck, gentle fingertips grazing her pulse point before moving away. A firm arm settled around her waist.

"Wake up, Claire," he entreated.

"Izzitmorning?"

"No. But get up anyway."

Blearily, she opened an eye to glare at him, turning onto her back. Peter stayed still, propped on his side, hovering over her in the loud blackness. Claire breathed heavily, eyes slipping closed again and again until Peter cupped her chin, startling her into wakefulness.

Her eyes began to adjust, and she finally picked out Peter's features. And then his clothes.

"Why you dressed?" she slurred.

"Because I'm apologizing. Get up and get dressed. You brought something black, right?"

Ten minutes and two barked shins later, two things became clear. Firstly, Peter honestly did expect Claire to dress in the dark and secondly, his idea of apologizing involved nocturnal reconnaissance and surveillance of their target.

"You know," she complained in hushed tones as they downed pre-mission coffee, "some guys say it with flowers."

Peter took her mug from her, smirking. He discarded it inattentively in the sink. He stole her hand – and her breath, teleporting them both behind low shrubs at an unknown estate.

Instinctively, Claire crouched, feeling Peter do the same. She pressed herself back against Peter, trying to make the two of them small. Peter placed a hand on her hip, steadying them both.

"You don't like 'some guys,'" he replied, smirking against her neck.

"You know," Claire began again, trying to catch her breath, "you already apologized."

"I did, but I never thought you were one to believe words spoke louder than actions." Peter's hand slipped down from her hip to cover her hand where it was braced against the loamy earth. "You think Angela is up to something, and we both think seducing Fusor is a bad idea. Why not check up on her, and see if we can bag her right now?"

Claire fixed her eyes on the dark windows of the house – stately brick and ivy – trying to detect any signs of life, while her mind raced. This mission, the reason she was even there, was insulting. It was disgusting. That her grandmother even thought of using her that way made it worse, and this was an opportunity to throw that in Angela's face.

But she had also made a decision to try to get her Peter back. And today, even when he was frustrating her, he'd _been_ back. Was her pride worth risking that? Was he even close to being ready to use his powers like this?

Claire waited and it took a long moment for her to realize just what she was waiting for. In the past, that line of thoughts would be interrupted by Peter – reading them and responding to allay her fears with a quip and a self-effacing smile. Now, Peter couldn’t do that, and the thought was terrifying, amazing, freeing for Claire.

Before, though he asked her time and again, there was no faith in the leaps she took with Peter. She _knew_. And Claire… she liked jumping.

Almost dizzy, she breathed, "Why not?"

Claire felt Peter smile against her neck, and she turned her hand underneath his to squeeze it, feeling the moist, warm earth stick to her skin.

"So, what’s the plan?" she asked.

As it turned out, he didn’t have one. Some quick wrangling about just which powers were available to them, however, produced the first step of their plan: go in the through the front door to get access to the estate’s security system.

"And when we’re entering, we’ll be invisible, right?" Claire asked nervously as they dodged across the lawn toward the door.

"Do I look like a bitter, grouchy Englishman to you?" Peter replied, giving Claire a sardonic look. He was backlit by the low, yellow lights dotting a stone walkway they were scrupulously avoiding, planes of his face visible only in broad caricature. "We’ll be phased, so we’ll be a bit harder to see. I can’t do anything better than that, sorry."

Claire reached out to snag his hand because he had nothing to be sorry for. And, seriously, being harder to see couldn’t start soon enough for Claire’s tastes.

"Then I guess I’ve got my work cut out for me as look out, huh?"

Claire's heart raced as they sidled onto the house's porch, security lights flooding on to momentarily blind her. Peter pressed a careful hand against the door, through it. Claire took a deep breath, and followed him, closing her eyes as every quivering particle of her being passed between the nonexistent spaces of the wooden door.

On the other side, Peter turned sharply and swiftly to the keypad, laying a hand over it. His eyes moved behind closed lids as he bade the system to obey him, and Claire moved to stand at his back. Her eyes scanned the unlit foyer, hand tightening around his.

There was no detail in the darkness, but Claire imagined a baroquely accoutered, yet tasteful entranceway. She could almost pick out a large, wide staircase in front of her, and to her side a gigantic, white, Chinese style vase gleamed. She edged around it, trying to put its light out of her field of vision and stretching taut her connection with Peter until only their fingers touched.

The darkness bled into red tinged black as she strained her eyes, breaths echoing shallowly in her ears. Time seemed to slow. And, with Peter, she couldn't be sure that it hadn't.

But no. That was too many powers at once, and one that Peter had once confessed to her as being "too creepy" for him to use often, anyway. Between his pending immortality and his career watching people die, he was not keen on walking through a world of unliving statues even before he started restricting his power use.

Her focus narrowed to Peter's hand as Claire felt a quick tug. She half turned to look at him, still trying to listen for Fusor.

"Done," he whispered to her. "Where to?"

Claire nodded, and swallowed past the tension in her throat. Her mind raced as she tried to think of their next move, wishing Peter had already thought of a place. She had no idea about this house's layout, or where to go. Or, more importantly, where Fusor would actually be.

Inspiration struck, and she blurted, "The study!"

Peter looked at her strangely, waiting for elaboration. His calmness only made her want to shake him as adrenaline demanded they move from the exposed entranceway. She raised her other arm to smack him as she continued, "We already know that Fusor is stalking us, but we _don't_ know what she's seen. And if she has any notes, we can tailor our performance to what she already thinks about us."

"Pragmatic," Peter said. He jerked his chin toward the imposing staircase, "Okay, Grant Holverwell's home office was always upstairs. I don't think Marc would have changed anything his father left behind. So we'll start there, and then try the wine cellar to see if Fusor is holding them there."

Hand in hand, they slipped up the stairs. Peter guided them down the halls, pausing occasionally to reorient himself in the dark, and easily finding his way once he did. With a pang, Claire wondered just how often Peter had visited Marc Holverwell when he was growing up. She knew so little of his life before Homecoming.

Keeping up the rear guard, Claire watched the doors they had already passed, the niches displaying art, and the end tables with sharp corners and sharper flowers. While Peter worked a latch, cautiously peering into a room, Claire ran her fingers up a vase. It was thick porcelain, rather than delicate glass work. _It'll do_ , Claire decided. Although, truly, she wished she had been awake enough to think of bringing a real weapon.

"Clear," Peter murmured, and Claire's fingers came to a rest.

He opened the door fully just long enough for them to enter, and then shut it swiftly and softly.

"Well, that makes it easier," Claire said as her eyes found the paper strewn desk.

"Only if they're about us," Peter returned. "We'll have to touch them, you realize."

She nodded, and dropped his hand to move over to the desk.

"Then we'll make it quick!"

Peter clicked on a Tiffany desk lamp, and together they hastily sorted the mess into piles. Luckily, it didn't appear there was any rhyme or reason to Fusor's arrangement of papers on the desk, so they would not have to worry much about trying to hide their tracks.

In fact, Fusor wasn't much for organizing anything, Claire realized. She looked up to take in what the small pool of light revealed to her about the office. The book lined walls were in shambles. Shelves lay stacked on each other, wood broken into pieces and books shoved into torn piles against the walls. Everything of potential value, barring the lamp, was missing. Without ever having been in the Holverwell's home before, Claire could see the gaps where wealth used to be; mansions were all alike in the way money pressed in on a person, to the point where you could only notice it once it was gone.

It seemed that Fusor had been very thorough. And thoroughness, in Claire's mind, meant she was nearly ready to move on.

Sense attenuated, Claire stiffened as she heard a loud creak outside the door. Her tense fingers skittered away from the desk to find Peter's waist and dig in. His breath silenced in shock, and they phased out.

Her eyes fixed on the gap underneath the heavy wooden door. No light, no foot steps came.

"Just an old house, Claire," he whispered.

Gradually, Claire disengaged from him. She picked up the paper she had dropped, but couldn't help alternating looks between it and door.

The print on the papers was small, and dull – mostly financial papers of the sort highly interesting to murderous dehydrating kidnappers with a taste for wealth, but not so much for anyone else. Squinting, Claire brought paper after paper close to her face as she tried to find any hint to what Fusor thought about her and Peter.

"Got it," Peter whispered, and Claire looked up from her own frustrated search to look at his find. Scrawled on the back of a docking fee bill were a page worth of notes. If handwriting could look hungry, then Fusor's made a sincere attempt, Claire noted with a shiver.

"Hmm, the usual, I think," Peter said as he skimmed over it. "Old money, mother-in-law disapproves. 'Conflicted, cooling relationship. Strange living arrangement – sleeping together, but she dresses in the bathroom.'"

Claire let out an uneasy breath, "So, uh, she has been watching. Go us."

"'Very strange relationship. Wife okay with boyfriend talking to husband on beach, possibly open marriage,'" Peter quoted wryly.

Claire snorted and covered her mouth in a panic, adrenaline fueled hyper awareness singing along her nerves. Trying to console him, she replied, "Sometimes people misconstrue." More softly, she added, "Easy target."

Peter slanted a smile at her, and returned his eyes to the paper. Abruptly, he went still, all amusement fleeing his face.

"What?" Claire asked.

"'Fight every day, husband likes provoking wife by flirting in front of her. Gold digger?'"

Claire's blood ran cold. "She was at the Company?"

Slowly, Peter nodded. "But, I don't..." he started

"She was at the Company! That's the _one_ place we're supposed to be able to talk about the mission. We're compromised."

"No, Claire, wait. We can't be. So she followed us into the lobby? So what? There's nothing here about the elevator, and she didn't follow you to the lab. The next note is about you coming back home."

Very deliberately, Claire exhaled, trying to calm herself. Fear and anger at herself melted away. She turned to look at Peter, Tiffany lamp at her back, casting him into her own shadow. Steel in her eyes, she pronounced, "We've been playing, Peter. Next time she follows us, she might get close enough to find out who we really are, and then she'll be gone and the Holverwells will be dead. We need to end this tonight."

Peter reached out a hand, pushing her hair behind her ear. With that touch, she felt the cool frisson of intangibility overcome her once more. Carefully, eyes still fixed on his – reading fear and acquiescence and promise in his hazel eyes – Claire pressed her hand lightly against his where it rested on her neck, and then seized it so they could leave.

On the threshold, Claire stopped short.

"Peter, the light," she reminded him.

He was looking down the hallway, trying to remember a quicker way down to the wine cellar, and only half listening to her. He nodded distantly, and replied, "I've got it."

The light flicked off, and Claire closed the door quietly behind them. Claire's eyes widened in the harsh darkness. He wasn't supposed to do that.

With soundless footsteps, they crept down the maze of hallways, Claire's hand suddenly feeling uncomfortable as it gripped Peter's. This was _not_ the time for a heart to heart about his powers, and she couldn't help but wonder if the problem was more her own than his. She trusted him. She did. But seeing him use telekinesis didn't make her think he had recovered.

It only made her think of his blood on her hands as they all fought to contain the cascade of powers and personalities that overwhelmed him.

They made their way down to the cool wine cellar in silence, Claire now doubly alert.

Small, breathy, choked sounds broke into the silence, and even before Peter opened the door, Claire knew they had found the right place.

The sounds grew louder as the door sung open, rasping at Claire's ear and pushing her blood through her vein with a stutter. At first, they couldn't see anything at all. The lights flicked on.

"Oh my God," Claire breathed, dropping Peter's hand.

Grace sat propped against a cask of fine wine, looking like nothing so much as a dressed and discarded mannequin. Her hair was curled and arranged beautifully around her shoulders. Diamonds choked her throat and pinned her wrists to the floor in a horrifyingly literal way.

Her wrists, her neck, her ribs were all withered and thin, covered with papery, desiccated skin. Fusor had clearly taken great pleasure in slowly draining Grace's life and beauty, leaving a husk as a mockery of life. But despite the atrophied limbs, she was still alive.

Perhaps because Fusor was waiting the coup de grace. As yet, her legs remained untouched. The exposed, sexy curve of each calf tapered to perfect ankles. Capped with black stilettos.

With a sickening rush, Claire realized the real reason Angela had outfitted her wardrobe with designer shoes.

Peter knelt at Grace's side, trying to catch her attention. The woman continued moaning – no, not moaning. Trying to breathe. Peter moved a finger back and forth through her line of sight, shaking his head in disappointment when she couldn't follow it. He began checking her pulse, checking for any indications that she could possibly survive the night.

Digging her fingernails into the soft flesh of her palm, Claire turned her back on the pair. She looked over the rest of the wine cellars, hoping weakly she would find Marc. Somewhere, in a shadow, in any hidden crannies, in the obviousness of the bright light where she could blame herself for over looking him.

But she didn't. Claire saw and felt only cold reality. The failure was an unpleasant knot tangling in her mind. Claire wanted a moment to process, to still the ringing horror of his imagined, tortuous death. But they really didn't have time for that.

She moved back to the door to stand guard as Peter finished his evaluation, keeping up a soft babble of soothing sounds as he did so, secret mission be damned.

"Claire," Peter emotion roughened voice broke into the silence. Still focused on the hallway, Claire slid parallel to the wall so that she could see both Peter and anyone approaching. "We have to get her out of here."

"I know. What about Fusor?"

Peter shook his head, tears bright in his eyes, "Fuck her! I know I said we'd get her tonight, and I'm sorry, Claire. But we have to go _now_. I'm not going to walk away from Grace and just assume she'll be okay while we're fighting this out."

A part of Claire that she had not realized was frozen thawed at the passion in his voice. Three quick paces had her at his side, hand over his and careful arm around Grace.

"We'll get her another time," she breathed.

Peter swallowed, jawed clenched. He looked down guiltily, and Claire wanted to scream.

"Peter," she snapped. "I know you didn't always have to choose. You could do both and the world would be easy and it would bend for you. But we are making a choice and it is the _right_ –"

The world blinked out; racks of aged wine, hard stone and dark wood was replaced by the anti-septic white of a Company infirmary.

"One," Claire finished lamely, blinking in the light.

"Motherfucker!" shouted a female voice from across the room. "Could you warn me before you do that, Petrelli?"

Claire opened her mouth to ask exactly how you warn ahead about teleportation, but she realized this was no time for sarcasm, and asked instead, "Is there a doctor here tonight, Felicia?"

"No," Felicia said, drawing it out. "Why do you..." Claire could pinpoint the exact moment Felicia got close enough to see the state Grace was in. "Shit, Petrelli! What have you been up to?"

The three of the lifted Grace's awkward, but scarily light body onto a nearby gurney. Studying Grace, Peter replied, "You know. The same old. Recon. Rescue."

Felicia looked between Grace, Peter, and Claire suspiciously, before turning away, braids swinging. She walked to a large metal refrigerator, and removed a vial.

"I'm surprised you think we need a doctor, Claire. I thought you'd know we sure as shit have better things going here than that!"

"I try not to think about it," Claire admitted dryly.

"Still bitter about that 'imprisoning your dad', thing?" Felicia asked, extracting blood from the vial with a threateningly large hypodermic needle.

"That must be it."

At her tone, Peter looked up from Grace, worried furrow deepening as he looked to Claire. She tilted her head slightly, beckoning him to come talk outside. He hesitated to let go of Grace's hand, telling her, "I'll be right back."

"Whatever," Felicia said, making a shooing motion with her hands. "I've got it."

As soon as the door clicked closed behind them, leaving them in the austere, outdated halls of the Hartsdale facility.

"Are you mad at me?" Peter asked, hushing his voice to prevent it from echoing. "I know I shouldn't have used the TK. I messed up."

Smiling to herself, Claire replied, "You're an idiot, you know that?"

"It's been said... by Nathan... a lot," Peter said, confused.

"You were right. I do prefer actions to words. When you used telekinesis it freaked me the hell out, Peter." She took a step closer to him, resting her hands on his hips. "But when you had to make the hard choice, you did. Not only that – you made it with me."

"If you hadn't been there, maybe I wouldn't have done the right thing."

"No. You would have. I didn't make the choice for you. We _both_ made it. Together. I trust you, and tonight you showed me that I'll never have to hurt you again." With all deliberate slowness, Claire leaned up on her tiptoes, and placed a lingering kiss on the corner of his mouth.


	8. Chapter 8

The dividends of adrenaline and caffeine for Peter and Claire were giddy, unfocused, wired energy. They gave Felicia a name and directed her to the right folders, teleporting away from Hartsdale when her back was turned. She'd kill them for pawning in-take procedure off on her, but now dawn was splitting the sky and they craved home.

Peter bunched up the space between Hartsdale and the beach, bringing them directly to the kitchen. His hand was halfway through the refrigerator door before Claire could even orient herself.

"In a rush?" she snickered, as he haphazardly phased milk and eggs through the door.

He smiled, and shrugged, snagging an apple from the counter to take a large bite.

It was a lingering smile, continuing as Claire hip-checked him to the side to retrieve ingredients for omelets. As they prepared breakfast, Peter would purposefully brush close to her in their extravagantly spacious kitchen, stealing vegetables to snack on almost as quickly as she cut them. Playfully, she aimed the knife at his fingers on his next attempt, but he was too quick, fingers skittering away with a slice of green pepper before her weapon could connect.

A part of Claire tried to keep her distance from him, all too aware that high they were both on was built unsteadily over the half-failure of the night. But the brightness in Peter's eyes didn’t look like mania; it was too warm, too deeply felt. The guilt and the hesitance of the past day were gone – so too was so much of the tension. Listening to his light chatter about one of his patients, about the worn letters from the patient’s granddaughter he read to the man each morning, she saw the possibility he was presenting her with.

They didn't need the fractured rubble of the past. And Claire didn't want it.

"You should see Tom's face, when I read them to him, Claire. Even though it's the same words, even though he remembers them better than I do, I can see his hope every time I say them to him," Peter said, resting his hand on the small of her back.

Claire shivered under that touch, even as she smiled to herself. It was so good to hear him talk like this, about the life he claimed he didn't have. Turning to talk to Peter, Claire allowed her attention to turn to him – away from the onion she was chopping. And from the fingertip she very much needed.

"Ow!" she yelped, a moment too late, as the blood spreading across the cutting board alerted her to the minor pain.

Claire scrunched her face at the mess, hurriedly reaching for a paper towel to clean the blood from her already healing hand.

"Oh, sorry!" she said as she bumped into his hip, sidling between him and the counter toward the sink.

Peter's arms came down around, her trapping her there. She felt his breath ghost across her forehead as he replied, "Now, Claire, I don't think that's hygienic at all."

"What?" she breathed, eyes darting up to meet his. They were shuttered, opaque with intensity that belied his teasing.

Gently, he unwrapped the paper from her hand, and leaned around her to retrieve the hand soap. Exhaling, Claire raised her other hand to clutch Peter's shoulder, even as he eased back to wave the container in her face.

"You do know what to do with this, right?" he asked with feigned concern.

Claire rolled her eyes, but dutifully allowed him to lather her palm when she did not remove her other hand from him.

"It's not like it's going to kill us, Peter."

"Remind me, since I've apparently forgotten," he said, flicking the tap on and stretching her arm behind her to rinse it off. Claire gripped to his shoulder tighter, turning half way into his body to accommodate the movement. "But when did you get a taste for blood?"

"I thought it'd go well with the immortality," she replied cheekily.

Hand clean, Peter released her to turn the faucet back off. His eyes, steady on her own throughout the cleansing, broke away from hers. He looked down, an unvoiced response quirking his lips up. Claire blinked up at him, waiting for his to speak, but he didn’t.

Instead, he leaned forward to press an impulsive kiss against her cheek, and Claire's eyes fluttered closed as she swayed into the unexpected touch. Brushing the back of his fingers across the fading warmth of the kiss, he drifted away to deal with the onion fiasco, leaving four wet streaks on her face.

Reaching her hands backward, Claire steadied herself on the lip of the sink. Eyes still closed, she called to Peter, "Make sure not to throw my fingertip in with the vegetables."

"You," Peter pronounced with some amazement. "are the most disgusting person I’ve ever met."

Biting her tongue to prevent the most obvious response, Claire pouted at him instead. "How is that disgusting? I'm trying to prevent us from being cannibals!"

Peter strode over to the stove, turning the knob on the range until the sparking actually produced a flame. Swirling eggs into the skillet, he tossed a skeptical look over his shoulder.

"I am!"

"I don't believe you. First, you try to mix in your flesh with our delicious meal, and then you claim to have a taste for blood. Really, Claire, that's no way for a 'young lady of stature' to behave. I have no idea what you are turning into."

Naturally, there was only one response to that. Drying her hand on her jeans, Claire crept up slowly on Peter. Aligning herself against his form, she pressed in close, running her hands up arms attentively prodding the eggs. Leveraging herself against his back, she pulled on his biceps to lift herself onto her toes.

Sensing her intent, Peter shifted to accommodate, settling his feet more firmly to the ground to stabilize her, and placing the pan back onto the burner.

Her heart was racing from the absurdity of what she was doing, the line she knew she was crossing – if only for a moment, if only as a joke. Claire moved her right hand from his arm to tug at his hair, arching his neck back just far enough for her to growl playfully into his ear, "I'm turning into a vampire."

 _It's revenge_ , Claire thought, _for the stunt with the soap._

Then, tightening her grip in his hair until Peter groaned, Claire raked her teeth along his neck. She ended with a sharp nip at his Adam's apple, bobbing under her mouth as Peter swallowed convulsively.

"Good point," Peter conceded, voice a good octave higher than usual.

Something about hearing that squeak in his voice sent Claire over the edge. Releasing his hair, she collapsed against him, burying her helpless giggles into his back.

"You taste like soap," she panted into the warm cotton of his shirt. "Girly soap."

With some difficulty, he replied, "I didn't know vampires _licked_."

"Well, it was that or Sylar." Hiccuping from the strain of controlling her laughter, Claire lifted up Peter's arm to duck under it, peering at their unattended meal. She folded it with a spatula, and elbowed Peter in the ribs. "We're lucky you didn't burn it."

"Sylar licks? Wait. I don't want to know that. Or how you know. And if breakfast is ruined, it is entirely on _your_ conscience, Claire." He glared sternly at her on the last point, but nonetheless allowed his upraised arm to fall around her shoulders, as they flipped the omelet onto a plate and started the process anew.

"Oh, come on. You know he does. Have you ever seen his face when he thinks he has you? Totally a licker."

"... yes," Peter said contemplatively, "definitely the most disgusting person I've ever met."

Frowning, Claire poked him again, but couldn't honestly contradict him. The eggs were beginning to look done, so Claire slid back under Peter's arm, and began exploring the kitchen. The previous morning, Peter had thoughtfully left out a mug for her to use, so she had no earthly idea where the dinnerware was actually kept. They were easy enough to find, actually. The problem was more deciding which of the many sets was least formal.

Deciding that if Angela had a problem with them using the good stuff, she should never have agreed to send them out to the beach, Claire grabbed the nearest set and retrieved _silver_ silver from a drawer to lay out on the table.

Breakfast was actually a brief affair. Claire worried at first that Peter was still taken aback by her actions in the kitchen. But then, while waving his fork to punctuate a story about Nathan's efforts to rein in the Company's autocratic attitudes, he kicked her gently under the table. Happy that their game was still on, Claire smiled down in her plate, and kicked him back.

The game continued, escalated in inanity as they told increasingly boring stories to cover their next strikes against each other – almost as if they were playing while avoiding the watchful eyes of Nathan or Angela.

After, Micah's gift alerted Peter that the cell phone he'd forgotten upstairs was ringing. Taking the stairs two at a time, he loped up stairs to answer Nathan's call. Hopefully he had slept since Claire had seen him last, but judging from the skyline, that was not particularly likely.

Feeling startlingly content, Claire decided it was time to make a phone call of her own.

Holding the phone to her ear with her shoulder, Claire started to clear the table as she waited for it to connect, trying desperately not to flinch at May's ringback – "Mickey", of course. The horrible music ended swiftly, however, as May answered.

"Hey, you!" May said, sounding slightly winded, as if she'd perhaps jumped a couch or two in the mad dash to answer her phone. "It's awfully late for a call."

"Hey, back! And you mean early."

"Right, early from the other side of sleep. Which I'm not on. And speaking of things that are late, remember how you said you'd call when you got to the beach house? How you'd call _that very night_? What was that?"

"... it was a lie," Claire mumbled.

"That right! It was a lie! Do it again, and I swear I'll find a way to kill you. What if you had been disintegrated in a ditch somewhere?"

"That doesn't even make sense, May! But I am sorry for worrying you."

"Apology accepted! So," May said, elongating the vowel musically. "How's the incest? I mean _mission_?"

Claire nearly choked, fumbling with the dish she was scraping clean into the compactor and her phone for one harrowing moment before saving both pricey items from an earnest plunge into coffee grounds.

"Being discussed on an incredibly un-secure cell phone!" she admonished.

"Oh!" May said, sounding momentarily ashamed. Momentarily. Her sauciness was back in full as she continued, "Professional paranoia, I like it. It's _sexy_."

"Well, I do try," Claire replied.

"Mmhmm. Okay, banter, check! Can we move on to you actually dishing some dirt?"

"Dirt about what exactly, May?" Claire asked with some worry in her voice. What kind of thing was May expecting to happen, here?

"Married life?" she tried, putting on an innocent tone.

Claire scowled in the phone, scraping Peter's plate with unnecessary, and possibly damaging, force. But, despite herself, she felt compelled to be honest "It's been confusing."

"Well, that's to be expected. You are married to your... to Peter, I mean. Not the simplest guy around."

"King of mixed signals," Claire griped, surprised at herself. It was so easy to get wrapped in the emotion of the moment, in the theory of the mission, that she had been letting things accumulate. She'd been dumb, she realized, to not call May earlier. She needed someone to pick through her life and tell her what was happening. She need to _vent_.

"Signals? There are signals now?"

Moving to the opposite side of the kitchen, Claire shifted to open the dish washer and began piling items in. There were few enough that she shortly levered the door closed with her foot, and rested back against it.

Fingers tapping against the counter, she confirmed, "There are signals now. When he's okay, when he's not okay, when he's my friend, when he's my husband, and when he's my friend only because he's pretending to be my husband."

"And when he's your husband, what's he like?" May asked carefully.

"A jerk. We went to this party, and he ditched me to passively aggress at some guy he knows from rich kid camp – a guy who, of course, turned around and thanked him for all the help by the end. Because it's _Peter_ ," she concluded, unable to keep a smile out of her tone at how unchangeable some things were.

"Well, there's that at least," May mumbled, more to herself than into the phone.

"The thing is, though, every time we seem to get off track, or he pulls away, we actually fix it, May. It doesn't just spin out of control. And then he's my friend again. Nathan came by yesterday. No, it's tomorrow already. The day before yesterday. You wouldn't believe how bad it was. I mean, seriously. They were assholes!"

"But then came the make up cuddles, right?" asked May, well informed of Petrelli style bonding, although she hadn't witnessed it herself.

"Not then, they didn't. He just had me."

There was a long silence from the other side of the line. May began cautiously, "They didn't make up."

"I think you're underestimating their co-dependency. The cuddles were just much delayed – and over the phone. That's what Peter is off doing."

"Ah. So this is a _clandestine_ call. You didn't want him to hear!"  
crowed May, sounding relieved.

"No," Claire replied defensively. "Not really? He's usually too polite to eavesdrop."

Claire could almost hear May rolling her eyes at the idea that anyone could resist eavesdropping.

"Anyway. Continue!"

Hopping up onto the counter, Claire aligned herself with opposite window above the sink. It wasn't an ocean view, but she could nonetheless see clearly into the distance. Even having visited the other residents at the party, she and Peter still seemed so isolated. It was more like they had passed briefly into their separate reality before passing back into their own unreality. Or maybe vice versa, given the bizarre quirks of the rich.

"So it's like we spend the day being completely miserable. Yesterday Angela was jerking us around, and Peter was flirting with Monica. And then–"

"He did what with our girl? Doesn't he know she's my girlfriend?"

"May, Monica doesn't even know that. And kissing a poster isn't a date."

"Says _you_ ," May grumbled.

Claire rolled her eyes, trying to pick up her lost thread. "We had this awful fight. But then, in the evening, we were a team. We did something important, May," she emphasized, with no small amount of wonder.

"Yeah," May agreed softly. "You both certainly need that."

The moments were beginning to blur in Claire's exhaustion – but two stood out. In the kitchen, earlier, pinned against the counter and breathless in anticipation that was sweeter than realization, because in that moment even what she wanted was possible. And Hartsdale, leaning up and pressing her lips so close to his.

But that was something she couldn't say, not even to May, not even for the mission.

"He threw me into the ocean," Claire confessed. Her eyes could just barely pick out the outline of their nearest neighbor. Instead of feeling alone, however, Claire could feel a sense of warm secrecy creeping over her. "I got him back, though. And totally won in the race back to the house. Even though he _cheated_ and –" remembering herself, Claire stopped. "Anyway. He totally cheated."

"So," May said, giving the word ponderous weight. "What you're saying is that the nights make up for the days?"

"No! Not like you're thinking, May!" Claire snapped, blushing. _But, yes, a little like that._

 

 

The night caught up to them incrementally, leaving Claire dozing on the couch, face buried in Peter's shoulder as he sleepily composed a mission report. He moved his head from side to side, trying to pop the stiffness out of his neck, and the exertions shook Claire from her light slumber.

"Stop that," she groaned, shifting to nestle closer.

"Sorry," he murmured.

"Mmph." Claire moved against, shrugging against him, "You aren't very comfortable, you know."

"Then I guess it's time for you to be awake."

Claire stretched, unwillingly heeding him, and then flopped into his lap to squint up at him, "What is it with you today? Is it Claire Has To Be Awake Day?"

"Actually, yes. Although, it's known more commonly as _everyday_."

Claire blinked, and then said contemplatively, "We need to invest in getting you a real sense of humor. This one isn't doing it."

Peter raised an eyebrow, taking his hands back from the keyboard where they had rested. Extending his left arm, he gently skimming his fingertips up her side, starting at her hips – a cruelly light threat of tickling that had Claire instantly curling up defensively.

"I give, I give. You're the funny one in the family, really. No moping at all!"

"My life is complete," he replied dryly, but he left his hand settle on her stomach.

She uncurled herself, resting her head once more in Peter's lap, gazing up at him.

"I had a dream about us," she said suddenly.

He smiled softly, curling a lock of her hair around his finger. "Really?"

"Really." She closed her eyes, savoring the warm memory of the dream. "I was the sun."

"Juliet's got nothing on you," Peter chuckled.

"No, I mean," she fumbled, trying to express the wisps of dream meaning she could recall. "It was like Superman. The sun recharges him."

"Since when do you read comics?"

In a voice that Sandra Bennet would recognize from impassioned defenses of the manatee's nobility, Claire said, "Comic books are a perfectly valid research tool!"

Peter laughed again, and Claire opened her eyes to glare at him. "Hey, no! I'm with you! Comics have never steered me wrong."

"So what I was saying is that you have to get recharged the same way, but you do it through people," she concluded, almost nervous. She turned onto her side to look away from him. It was too bright.

Gently, Peter's hand came to guide her back. Sure she would stay, he interlaced their fingers, rings clinking together. Another clicking sound Claire couldn't place followed shortly after, but she ignored it, focusing only on his crooked smile.

"You're like the sun," he agreed.

"Which is lovely, I'm sure," said Angela.

Heart in her throat, Claire flailed and spilled to the floor. Sputtering, she pushed her hair from her face to watch Peter's head snap around in surprise. Angela stood not far from where they had been lounging, watching them critically as she peeled black gloves from her hands. Three paces behind her stood Gleason, looking faintly sheepish and giving no indication of just how long they had been there.

Peter started to rise, but Angela waved at him with a glove to stay seated. Claire clambered gracelessly back onto the couch, self-consciously sitting as far from Peter as a non-phased human could.

Angela waited a beat, giving her son an inscrutable look. In response, he tilted his head as if listening for something.

"She's still not doing electronic surveillance, Mom," he concluded after a moment.

"You're lucky enough as it is that she's still here," Angela snapped.

Claire watched her impassively, smug inside with the knowledge that defying her grandmother had worked so well.

"You should have stuck with the plan."

"And waited who even knows how much longer? Grace would have been dead by then. As it is, the plan didn't exactly work out for Marc," Peter responded, starting to get worked up.

"If you had read the files from Paris, you would be aware that Marc was a lost cause from day one, Peter."

Claire raised her chin stiffly, eyes skimming over Peter's profile to meet his mother's eyes as he replied, "I don't believe in lost causes."

Angela smiled. Looking down she rifled through her purse and assured them, "Do it again, and I'll let Bob have his way. Wine tasting, Saturday." She extended a hand to Peter, a shiny silver card held between two fingers. "Expense account."

She turned to leave, shoulders a taut line beneath her suit jacket as she signaled to Gleason. For his part, he met Claire's eyes with an unexpressed sigh, clearly not happy that his service was being engaged for such a short trip.

"Oh, and," Angela tossed irritably over her shoulder, "your cover story is _not_ that you are eager to give me more grandchildren, but instead that you are conflicted. Some restraint would be appreciated."


	9. Chapter 9

Angela should not have been so easy to ignore.

Claire knew that, and she could almost bring herself to feel guilty the first day. But as one day slipped into another, as she and Peter fell into a smooth rhythm of domesticity – the one that she realized had always lain under the surface of their relationship, just waiting for them to have the time to truly click – it fell by the wayside. They had always thrived in each others' company, and with the last barriers of their old relationship broken down, with the complexities of their mission tamed, they easily reforged their quiescent bond.

She did remember Marc. Visits to Grace assured that. Seeing the blank, unremitting terror in Grace's face, the furtive, darting looks she would make as she tried to avoid Claire's eyes and searched for the husband whose death she could not remember stayed with Claire. She spent long silences at work remembering the fragile state they had found Grace in, and planning exactly the retribution Fusor would receive.

Between those dark moments, there was the cover story, and their comforting reinterpretation of it.

Saturday found her perched on the edge of the artfully distressed, light oak vanity of the master bedroom – determination humming across her skin as she watched Peter fumble with cuff links in the bright midday light. She wrapped her robe more tightly around herself, scarlet cocktail dress peeking out from beneath it, and beckoned him forward with a toss of her head.

"Need help?"

Peter's crisp, white shirt was undone, black jacket tossed onto the bed as he dressed. He looked up at her through his bangs, scrunching his nose in displeasure, even as he collected the gold cuff links in one hand and moved to her.

"I have done this before, you know," he said, extending his arm for her to affix the little golden half helix symbols of the Petrelli law firm. Pinching his sleeve closed with one hand, she slid her other fingers lightly from his palm to his wrist, along the tracery of his veins. She carefully fitted the link into place, swiveled the pin of the link back to close it. Peter turn to the side, offering his right arm to her, while examining the fit of the cuff link.

"I do quality work, you know."

He dropped his arm, assuring her, "Oh, I know."

"And as such," she began loftily, hooking a foot behind his leg to draw him closer still, until his hips bumped up against the dresser. "I think I should personally address your shirt situation."

From this vantage, she was actually the slightest bit taller than him. She rested her fingertips on his bare chest, eyes locked with his. They were almost green at the moment, like a reflection even with the mirror at her back.

They were on dangerous ground.

"You're very bossy today," Peter said.

"And you like it."

He smiled wickedly, and Claire's hands shook.

Claire focused her eyes on the buttons and tried to focus her mind on the mission, hands working as a flush crept up her neck. She felt a droplet of water trickle down her back, and pretended it was from the wet hair pinned atop her head.

Taking a deep breath, she asked, "Why didn't I ever take your name?"

Peter tilted his head to the side, looking at her wonderingly, before saying softly, "Claire, you have _never_ wanted to be a Petrelli."

That was not, strictly speaking, true. There had been one plane ride – from Texas to New York after ditching the Haitian, on the run from the Company – that Claire had spent in delighted panic. She alternately escaped to the lavatory to breathe into a bag, and ignored the in flight movie to scrawl line after line in her airport bought notebook: Claire Petrelli, Mrs. Peter Petrelli, Mrs. Claire Bennet-Petrelli.

She tugged sharply on the starched cotton, making him stumble slightly into her. As he steadied himself, she turned her face away to hide her embarrassment.

"I _mean_ , what are we going to tell everyone?"

He brushed a wet lock of hair from her neck, and her eyes instinctively went to his, just as he'd planned.

Peter smiled and said matter of factly, "We'll tell them you are an actualized young woman who defines her own identity and refuses to be subservient to the patriarchy."

"You sound like my Women's Studies professor!" she exclaimed, buttoning the final buttons.

"That's hardly surprising," he replied, head tilted as he tried to look around her. She scooched over on the dresser, knocking her handbag and cosmetics to the side, as she allowed Peter access to the mirror so he could admire the work. He ran his hand through his hair, tucking his bangs behind his ear before turning his attention back to her.

"Your turn," he declared, beginning to unpin her hair. He picked up a comb from next to her, fingers incautiously brushing against her.

"It's hardly surprising why, Peter?" Claire asked, eyes closing as she relished how gently he worked the snarls out of her hair.

"Because I ought to know a thing or two about my major."

Relaxed in the pleasant sensation of Peter pampering her, it took a moment for his words to register. She blinked her eyes open, staring muzzily at him.

"You were a Women's Studies major?"

Peter nodded, and Claire couldn't restrain the helpless laughter bubbling up in her.

"Yes," he confirmed, chuckling himself. He laid the comb down and began wrapping locks of her hair around his fingers, three at a time, to create wide, loose curls as he flashed nuclear heat through his hands. "For all of two years, before Dad figured out that I really wasn't planning to switch to something more appropriately pre-law, and cut me off."

Which was all very sad, really. But...

"You were a Women's Studies major!" she sputtered through laughter. "It wasn't even to get laid, was it?"

Peter looked vaguely affronted. "Of course, not! I'm not Nathan!"

"Oh God, I love you. You're such a _girl_ ," she said, collapsing against his chest, face red with mirth.

"Hey now," he said, seizing her shoulders to put her back on the dresser and pouting, "do you want me to finish doing your hair and make up or not?"

Claire rapidly collected herself to nod solemnly, even as the corners of her mouth twitched. Only a few giggles escaped as he finished curling her hair and moved on to sweeping fine, pink blush across her cheeks. She followed his directions, looking up and down and closing her eyes at intervals.

Grabbing the mascara as he finished up, Claire waved it at him menacingly.

"You're up next, Miss Petrelli," she said with a smirk.

"That's Missus Petrelli, thank you! I'm married now," Peter quipped before rolling his eyes. "And for what? I'm dressed. Unlike you, I don't need a hydraulic lift to get into my shoes."

"Yes, the five inch Christian Louboutins were my idea," she said sarcastically.

Peter smiled crookedly, not even trying to hide his excitement. "Do you want me to put them on for you?"

"You have the legs for it, but they're way too small for you," Claire said, swinging her legs against the vanity as she waited for him to collect them from the box they'd lain in since a _very_ enjoyable afternoon exploiting their expense account earlier in the week.

Peter ignored the jibe, kneeling down before her. Claire caught her breath at the sight of him – pressed pants, stiff white shirt tailored perfectly to his shoulders and tapering to his waist, gold cuff links securing rich cotton sleeves, and the glint of his wedding ring against the black patent leather of her ridiculously expensive designer shoes. His bangs were loose again, almost obscuring the flush on his face in as they spread in a wide black arc.

"You look good down there," Claire said, her voice catching in her throat.

Peter shook his head, keeping a smile to himself. He lifted each foot delicately, slipping the peep-toed shoe on before fastening the ankle strap. Finished, he slid a hand up her leg, starting at the long silver stem of the stiletto heel, eyes following his fingers as they glided over the strap and up to the curve of her calf, coming to a rest on her knee.

He bit his lip, breath coming in short bursts. He looked up at her, eyes hazel crescents, and for a moment he looked like he wanted to ask her something. Claire exhaled heavily, wanting very much to cross her legs, but resisting as she waited for a request that didn't come.

Trying to break the hot, heavy silence, Claire waggled her feet at him and asked, "So how does your inner feminist feel about these tools of the patriarchy?"

Peter wet his lips with a quick flash of pink tongue, before quirking a smirk at her. "That the patriarchy is no match for your power."

"Ohhh, good save," Claire replied.

Claire took his hand and helped him up, even as she slid from the dresser to stand shakily on the heels. She steadied herself briefly against him, pressing close, feeling just how much he appreciated the shoes.

"You okay?" asked Peter, looking at her – not down, for once, since she was hardly more than an inch shorter than him in the shoes.

Playing on Peter's sympathy was always a good strategy, so he hardly saw it coming when Claire gracefully pivoted, putting years of cheerleading and childhood gymnastics to use and pinning him against the vanity. Wielding the brush she had palmed, she grinned as she pushed up against him.

"Now to do something about that undead look you've got going on."

"We really don't have time for this, Claire," Peter replied, struggling and trying to bring his wrist up to indicate his watch. Claire laughed, grabbing his wrist and trapping it against the edge of the dresser. He winced as his sleeve rucked up, flesh getting caught between the metal links of his watch and the wood.

"Ow!"

Claire laughed, "Oh, come on, you baby! It'll be fine."

Peter shrugged awkwardly, righting his sleeve and avoiding her eyes as he looked for the cuff link that had popped loose. Spotting in on the floor, he walked a pace away from her and bent to pick it up. Claire frowned.

"Peter, look at me," Claire demanded. His eyes flicked to her and then back down as he put the cuff link back in without her help, action silently stinging her. "I'm sorry."

Finally, he looked back over at her, expression soft.

"Claire," he started, "I dated Elle, remember? This is hardly the worst I've suffered."

He walked over to her, meeting her eyes. "You're right. I'll heal." He laid a hand on her shoulder, rubbing soothingly down her arm before finding her hand. "Now come on. We really do need to get going."

She squeezed his hand tightly for a moment, searching his eyes for sincerity, relieved to find no blame in them even as she was confused. Dropping his hand, she shrugged out of the robe, exposing the low, heart shaped neckline of her red cocktail dress. The silk fell just to her knees, a length deemed just flirty and desperate enough for her husband-seducing cover.

Glancing again to the mirror, Claire almost didn't recognize herself. She was just another young socialite. Good.

 

 

The Hyun's wine tasting party was an annual event, celebrating the first new bottles coming out of the previous November's harvest from the family's vineyard. Annual, of course, from the past ten years, as Peter informed Claire, since the Hyuns were tragically _new money_.

Their daughter, Evie, was recently engaged to Kwang-Sun Young, the son of a wealthy multi-national brokering giant. As such, the party was equally intended as an opportunity to properly induct her fiancé into Long Island society. Claire made a mental note of that – it meshed with what she recalled from the beach party of Evie's rank in Lexi's social circle. The young dog breeder was clearly an up and comer, but that gained her access, not supremacy. The stress to impress would be on the Hyuns rather than her party guests, and that played to Peter and Claire's benefit.

The tasting was held indoors, spilling out onto the back veranda but no further than the deck. No shoes would be abandoned this afternoon – except by the faint of foot. The spartan dining room of the Hyun house was decorated with latticed grapevines, seasonably bare. Laughter tinkled through the echoic, high ceilinged rooms as they entered, eyes surveying caterer's spread.

It was in the corner, setting out bulbous tasting glasses and previous vintages, that they spotted their mark. Just as quickly, she noticed them, eyes sharpening with greedy intent.

They smiled blandly in response, splitting up to make rounds about the room, greeting everyone they had missed at the previous party. Claire was surprised how many times she actually could smile through a middle aged man criticizing the gaucheness of the Hyuns for celebrating such a silly, unprofitable little hobby. Nonetheless, she was relieved when Peter rejoined her side, bearing small onion tarts as offerings.

"What, no booze?" Claire joked, taking the napkin holding the proffered food.

He popped the tart into his mouth and swallowed almost without chewing before wrapping one hand around her waist, kissing her temple. "You're still under age, _darling_."

"Do people actually care about that?" Claire asked.

Peter laughed, leading her to the dance floor to better avoid the musty old men. "I think the first time I got drunk was at one of these things. When I was thirteen."

Claire smiled, allowing him to twirl her slowly to the soft jazz a trio played near the window.

"Sounds better than a keg on the back of a truck."

"Oh, we had those, too. You know Catholic schools..."

The music changed, up tempo, and Claire shimmied closer to Peter. He remained curiously restrained and she challenged him, "Oh come on, I _know_ you can do better than that."

"Oh, _do you_?" he replied, quirking an eyebrow.

"I've seen you dance. And I know you aren't afraid of a little PDA. I watched you with Elle for, what, six months?"

He chuckled lowly, sliding his hands to the curve just above her ass. Lowering his lips to her ear, he murmured, "You watched?"

Claire blushed furiously, but held her ground, moving her hands from demurely resting on his shoulder to clutch at his back..

"I did," she breathed.

He smirked. "What did you think?"

She pulled back slightly, even as she moved her hands to his neck, digging in slightly with her nails. "That I didn't get it. I mean, not that I don't get wanting to throw Elle down and.... _that_ I get. But I never understood the two of you together."

"Well, you're looking at it the wrong way," he replied, turning them both. " _I_ wasn't throwing anyone down."

That was an _unpleasant_ thought. Claire felt a surge of possessiveness and flexed her fingers, wanting nothing so much as to mark him, even impermanently – but she held back, remembering the dresser incident. In the end, she curled a hand, brushing the cool red polish of her fingernails against his neck and imagining the color would stay.

They turned again in silence, and Claire's eyes caught on Fusor's, watching them between insolent looks at the socialites.

"How did Elle hurt herself?" Claire asked before she realized the question was even forming in her mind.

Peter frowned. "What do you mean?"

She shrugged slightly in his embrace. "I mean, I thought we were immune to our powers. It's why Ted's wife died, but he didn't."

"This isn't a very appropriate discussion for where we are, Claire," Peter replied, his mouth a tight line.

"What?" Claire asked, taken aback by the sudden change in his tone.

His eyes were on Fusor, but he didn't really seem to be talking about her as he said, "Her mother died because of her power. I don't think hearing us talking about that is going to help us maintain our cover."

"Right," Claire said, hurt. She didn't know where this was coming from, but his words were a cold rush of reality infringing of the fantasy of the last week. She stepped back from him abruptly, although the song was well into a refrain. "Guess I'll go maintain it more."

She didn't look back to see his expression, but she heard no protests as she made a bee-line over to the wine table and their mark. _Distraught works_ , she thought.

"Hard day?" asked Fusor, sympathy sliding uneasily over predatory want.

Claire extended a hand and Fusor placed a glass in it, pouring a 2000 Cabernet for her, filling it all the way rather than daintily for a brief taste. Claire drank half without registering anything beyond the subtle burn of alcohol. She offered the glass again, and Fusor refilled it, saying, "I'll take that as a yes."

"I thought we were done with this stuff!" Claire exclaimed. Sometimes the escape of their cover story was too good. It allowed her to blur too many lines. Her heart, still quick with anger at Peter, felt little change as excitement for the mission took over.

"Who?" Fusor asked.

"I saw you watching us earlier, you _know_ who I'm talking about."

"I do. Your pretty boy husband. Newlyweds, right?"

Claire took another gulp, nodding.

"He seemed a little riled there for a moment, and then he backed off. He do that a lot?"

Claire met Fusor's hard eyes, putting on a look of desperation, "Yes! I just don't understand. Is it me? Am I doing something wrong?"

"It's not you," Fusor said, eyes raking down Claire's body and lighting up when they came to her shoes. "And I think I have the solution. Very discreet."

Claire caught the gist, and laid her glass down, folding her arms across her chest, "Why not just go to a pharmacy?"

Fusor plucked one of the caterer's business cards from the table and wrote her number on it.

"I'm very discreet. Who knows who the pharmacist talks to. Do you really want your problems getting around, when your mother in law is already doing you so much damage?"

Claire took the card with a grateful smile.

"So... is this you?" she asked.

"Yes. Call any time, day or night." Brazenly, Fusor took Claire's hand, running her thumb across the knuckles. Claire suppressed a shudder. "I'll help you."

Claire smiled weakly, and extricated herself with a brief thank you. She walked hurriedly away from the table, not really caring how it looked, although she was sure at the same time that the Claire she was pretending to be would run from such a proposition.

Ducking onto the deck outside, she leaned against the door jamb, trying to slow her accelerated heart rate. On the lawn before her, a group of men were rolling up their sleeves to inexpertly examine the construction of the Hyuns' gazebo. Among them were a Korean man Claire guessed to be Evie's fiancé and a man Claire recognized from the medical file on Grace – her brother Stanton.

Next to him, sure enough, was Peter. Claire's expression softened as she watched him talk closely with Stanton. He was probably giving away information that he shouldn't be, but Claire could see the other man relaxing in Peter's company, so it was hard to care. One of the older men called to Stanton, and he clapped Peter on the back in thanks, trotting over to push some vines aside so the others could look at the foundations. Peter shook his head quietly when Stanton glanced back, beckoning for him to join .

"Oh, come on! Since when is a Petrelli afraid of getting his hands dirty?" Stanton called.

Shrugging wryly, Peter relented. Pocketing his cuff links, he rolled up his sleeves.

And Claire's breath disappeared. On his wrist, right above his watch, was a large, ugly, red welt. It hadn't healed.

"Peter!" she yelled, and his head snapped around. Realization flashed across his expression just as quickly as he quelled it, schooling it into familiar neutrality. "We're going."

Peter nodded once, ignoring the snickering and mutters that followed in his wake.

Once he was close, she said tersely, "Teleport us out, we'll pick up the car later. I need to talk to you, and I don't want her to have time to follow."

In silence, they walked out, deliberately avoiding good byes. Finding a secluded area of the drive, Peter wrapped an arm lightly around Claire's waist and took them home.

"I can't believe you!" Claire shouted, throwing her black handbag at him, almost before she sensed the living room materialize. "You said you weren't going to lie to me any more!"

Peter's eyes looked past her as he said, "I didn't lie."

"No! You just _let_ me believe a lie. Because you're like Angela, right? That's what Nathan said. You're too damn good at this to lie outright!"

"I don't know what you expected. You know there are some abilities I'm not allowed to use."

"Allowed, Peter? No one is stopping you except you!"

Peter looked calm, but dead-eyed. "You said earlier that you didn't know why Fusor's mother died. That powers don't turn on us. Mine _does_. Everyday. It destroys me _everyday_."

Claire shook her head furiously, "No, no. You have _my_ power so it ..."

Peter grabbed her by the arms, forcing her to look into his eyes. "Your power is part of the problem." He laughed and added, "It's probably the biggest part."

"Is it... is it Adam?"

"No, Claire. He's not the hard one to let go."

Claire pushed him away, swiping at angry tears. "That is such _bullshit_. You'll use Sylar's, but not mine because _my_ power is the one that's killing you? Are you sure that you aren't just finding another excuse to push me away? Another way to _martyr_ yourself?"

"Claire. This is who I am now. I am _not_ your hero. The only way I can save the world from myself is to give up everything I want."

"And admit that you're a fuck up, right?" Claire sneered. "Sounds like you're just the same as always. What's the excuse with me? I'm too _different_ from you? Too much stronger?"

"You _are_ , Claire!" Peter snapped, voice cracking with the first emotion he'd displayed since they left the wine tasting.

Claire shook her head slowly, tears spilling down her cheeks. She replied, "That's Peter Petrelli, for you, always committed to being the weakest person in the room."

Peter flinched, but remained steadfast, "This is how I have to live."

"Without me, right?"

"Not without you! I'm _right here_ , Claire!" His hands came around her, more gently this time.

"For now. But you're already planning on leaving me."

"How can I not, Claire? Do you understand the kind of temptation that is? Living _forever_ , with all the power in the world? I had to give it up, Claire, and it was the hardest thing I've ever done." He sighed, jawed working against his frustration, and corrected himself, "I had to give you up."

Claire jerked her chin up, shoving him away decisively. "Then I guess you can do it again. Get out."


	10. Chapter 10

Crying, Claire slumped against the wall, the silk of her dress crumpled beneath her, legs splayed before her like those of an unwanted doll. She wanted to curl up, to wrap her arms around around herself and pretend there was no outside world – but those damn shoes were too awkwardly high for her to bring her knees to her chest

Claire swiped at her tears angrily, smearing her make up into an indefinable mess. Choking sobs wracked her body and, hiccuping, she made a lunge for her ankles. Her fingers scrabbled at the tiny buckle, and she felt a finger nail catch on the small metal tongue, driving it into the soft flesh underneath.

"Fuck!" Claire called out, quickly pulling her finger back. It had already healed, and somehow that was more enraging. Just another reminder of how her life was not in her own control – it was in Angela's, Peter's, her rebellious fucking ability's. Grabbing the loose shoe, she flung it across the room, where it landed on the couch cushions with an unsatisfying bounce.

She'd known that she would never grow old with the person she loved – maybe at nineteen that was simply easier to accept than it would be at eighty, but she didn't have a problem with that. She'd counted on Peter, though, on having someone who would be there with her. She didn't know why she had. She should have learned by now.

Peter was a Petrelli through and through. The only things Claire could count on them for were lies.

"Peter, you _liar_!" she screamed at no one, slamming her left hand painfully against the ground. She felt her bones pop out of alignment with a sickening crunch, so she repeated the action, hitting her fist against the polished wood until it was streaked with blood.

They were supposed to live together, to be what made eternity bearable for each other.

But he would rather die than be with her.

Bones ground against each other as she uncurled her fist, righting themselves as flesh knitted together over raw impact wounds. Claire brought her hand up to watch, to see how she couldn't make a mark against herself or the world. Blood was smeared across the even, perfect skin of her hand, little flecks dimming the sparkle of her diamond.

There was a click at the front door. A creak as it opened.

Peter walked into her line of sight, but Claire looked only at her hand and the fuzzy outline of his legs beyond it.

"I brought the car back," Peter said. "I'll leave the keys on the counter."

He sounded upset, Claire noted.

"I'm going to Nathan's."

She nodded almost imperceptibly and he disappeared.

Her tears started anew.

Eventually, emotional exhaustion caught up with her and she slept, crumpled against the wall, one shoe off and face pillowed on a bloodied hand.

Hours later, the mid-morning sun crept across the living room floor to peek into Claire's eyes. She twitched, groaning as she covered her eyes. Her head throbbed from the night before. Dehydration mixed with alcohol, no matter how small the amount, was not doing her any favors, regeneration be damned.

Groaning again, she pulled herself into a sitting position, feeling her hair stick to her face and hand. Claire jerked her hand away in distaste, and then winced as hair tangled around her ring. Tears welled again in her eyes and she swore, pulling her hair and rings until she finally got them free. She threw them across the room, listening to the metal skitter across the hard wood.

Her hand felt lighter without the rings, but not freer. Merely... naked.

"You're pathetic, Claire," she choked out, over an half-hysterical laugh, "Pathetic and insane."

She desperately needed this mission to be over, to go back to her boring, over-worked life, and only see Peter at awkward holiday get-togethers. Then she could forget how he made her feel and how close she actually came to thinking they were possible.

Gathering herself to her feet, Claire hobbled across the room to where she had thrown her handbag the night before. She snapped it open and dug for a moment before retrieving Fusor's card from it, along with her iPhone.

 

 

 

They met just half a block from Claire's apartment with May, in a little internet cafe Claire liked to siphon wifi from when May forgot to pay the monthly bill. It was jarring, but comforting, seeing Clémence Fusor's stark features in the rowdy hipster décor of a college hang out. This was Claire's domain, and certainly not Fusor's usual hunting ground.

With little time before their meeting, and littler inclination to put that much effort into her appearance, Claire had merely scrubbed the make up and tears and blood from her face. She'd brushed out the snarls in her hair, and pinned it up in a lazy bun, retrieved her shoe, and hoped to God there were no stains on her silk dress as she gear shifted through commuting traffic on the way into the city.

Claire hoped the final package was enticing enough for Fusor to take the bait as she stretched her legs off to the side of their small table and recrossed them. Fusor's eyes followed the movement.

Her thumb worried over the space where her rings were supposed to be, as she worked up a flirtatious smile for her mark.

Fusor, piercing eyes on Claire's, slid her hand across the table, a small package of pills concealed underneath her palm. Claire stared blankly at it for a moment, before remembering the cover story. Claire took Fusor's hand in both of her own in a mimicry of comfort, before removing the pills to her right hand and then her bag where it lay on the table. Her fingers met the hard metal of her gun. Claire turned the bag, still open, to the side and out of Fusor's eye line.

"Don't do this often, do you?" Fusor remarked.

Claire stroked her thumb across the back of Fusor's hand, looking down as she murmured, "I guess... I'm not even sure what I am doing."

Watching through lidded eyes, she watched Fusor smile. "You're talking with a friend. About your marriage. How to fix it."

"Do you really think it can be fixed?" she replied, letting her voice waver, and then clenching her jaw against the very real emotion that accompanied the acting.

Fusor chucked Claire lightly under the chin, her other hand still warm around hers on the table. Claire looked up, seeing a surprisingly tender look in the other woman's dark eyes. She half shrugged, saying, "I've seen couples come back from worse. My parents did."

There was something real there. And it was Claire's job to ignore it.

Sad smile on her lips, Claire said, "Your parents didn't have Angela Petrelli to contend with."

Fusor's expression hardened momentarily at the mention of Claire's grandmother, and then evened back into optimistic sympathy. _Well, isn't that interesting_ , Claire thought.

"No," Fusor said, with a false smile, "They just had each other."

"That bad, huh?"

"That bad. It's okay. Ancient history. Hey," Fusor said, suddenly changing directions. "You want to get out of here? There's only so much eau de frat boy I can endure."

Claire startled, heart thumping in her chest. _Already?_ she thought, even as she fished for Fusor's intentions, "Oh. Of course. Sorry for troubling you."

Clémence Fusor batted her eyes flirtatiously, leaning in to say, "I _mean_ , do you want to get out of _here_? Go back to my place?"

Hand going immediately to her bag, feeling the comforting outline of her gun, Claire nodded and slid from her seat.

"So, where to?" she asked, following Fusor out of the café.

Walking a few paces ahead, Fusor tossed back, "I'm parked by the back lane."

"You've got to be kidding me," Claire grumbled under her breath.

Carefully easing her gun from her purse, Claire walked noisily behind Fusor into the unevenly paved alley. Trusting, she didn't turn to look back at Claire, even as Claire closed the distance between them. Claire thumbed the safety off, and raised the gun to press at the nape of Fusor's neck.

"Too easy," she said, as the other woman stilled in her tracks.

"Claire?" Fusor did a good job, voice cracking at just the right moment, the sound of tears distorting her voice.

In response, Claire pressed harder with her gun.

"On the ground," she commanded. "Face down."

Fusor knelt carefully, hands dangling at her sides. She tilted her head to look up at Claire, dropping the act as she asked, "You know what you're doing?"

"Face down."

Acquiescing easily, Fusor lay down on the rough pavement. One eye on her, Claire shifted her gun loosely to one hand, digging in her purse for her phone. Back up. She needed back up.

"Didn't think through how to get me back to HQ, did you?" came Fusor's muffled voice.

Claire ignored her, focusing on the ringing as the number dialed. Her hand tightened around the grip of her gun, now slick with sweat.

Fusor shifted, pillowing her head of her hands to watch Claire mildly. "It's a long way from here to Kirby Plaza."

The line connected, and Claire almost groaned with relief. One hand on her phone, she kept the gun trained on Fusor, edging back behind Fusor once more.

"Hello? Patterson? I need you to send–"

Fusor kicked out, sweeping Claire's feet out from under her. She hit the pavement hard, phone and gun clattering away, head ringing from the impact. Fusor was swift, moving to kick Claire in the face.

She took the hit willingly, feeling teeth loosen and tasting blood. Her vision faded momentarily, but her sense of Fusor's movement was true.

Lashing out with the silver heel of her shoe, Claire spiked Fusor in the kneecap, red soles flashing. Fusor fell to one knee with a grunt of pain, glaring out at Claire from behind a curtain of dark hair. Dress tearing and knees skinning themselves on the pavement, Claire launched herself at the other woman – no way in hell could she stand again on those heels.

Fusor rolled with Claire's momentum, pinning Claire beneath her larger frame.

"You think I don't know what the name Petrelli means?" Fusor hissed.

Claire licked her tongue over her straightened teeth and healed gums, smiling to ignore the first chill of fear. A fierce jab to the diaphragm left Fusor gasping, and Claire quipped back, "Guess you don't."

She knelt behind Fusor, wrenching the woman's arm violently to hold it in place. Fusor winced in pain, still trying to regain her breath, and Claire cast about trying to get a line on her gun.

The other side of the alley.

"Damn it," she swore softly, second hand coming up to secure Fusor. "Guess we wait."

"No," growled Fusor.

A pins and needles tingle started in Claire's left hand, where it held the naked skin of Fusor's wrist. Her hand convulsed, disobediently remaining where it was, even as Claire watched flesh wither and blacken. Breathing hard, she pushed a knee into Fusor's back, trying to get free as death crept up her arm.

"What? You thought I needed a magic word to do my trick?"

Panic choking her, Claire struggled wildly, crying out, "No! Let go of me!"

And she did.

"Claire? Are you okay?" asked Peter, voice coming from a great distance. She blinked once, and again. Orienting herself to the new time.

No, not a new time. She hadn't gone forward. Peter had simply cut out a piece of time and sewed it back together without telling her.

Cautiously, he offered her a hand, and she took it with her right. Her knees scraped against the pavement as he hauled her up, wincing at the sight. He brushed the hair that had escaped her bun from her face, and Claire's world snapped into focus.

She stepped back, saying brusquely, "Gun's in the alley. Phone's... I don't know where. Can you get them?"

Peter nodded once, and moved to retrieve them while she examined the black, twisted growth that used to be her arm. Skin flaked from it like ash where she touched it. It didn't hurt, she noted. But it wasn't healing.

"Got them," Peter said. Her iPhone looked small in his hand. Looking down at it, he added, "Glad you made that phone call."

Before she could reply, before she could voice her next request, he laced his fingers with those of her good hand and teleported them home.

Claire sat heavily on the bed behind her, grateful for Peter's predictability. Already, he was in front of her, removing the now hated Louboutins from her feet.

"We should clean you up," he murmured to her knee.

"I don't need you to take care of me, Peter," Claire said, and he jerked back as if burned. Eyes challenging his, she continued, "I need you to cut off my arm. It's the only way for it to heal."

"Claire, I...," Peter trailed off, shaking his head. "I don't know that it's a good idea."

"Fine! I'll get a knife!" Claire snapped, standing. The world tilted uneasily under her bare feet, and Claire fought the vertigo of walking flat on the earth for the first time in nearly a day.

Peter caught her lightly by the shoulders, stopping.

"No. Okay, I'll do it. Just – that dress is already a lost cause, right?"

Claire picked at the torn hem and gave him a _duh_ look.

"Okay," he repeated, exhaling hard.

Slowly, he raised his right hand, index finger extended. Telekinesis sliced through skin, muscle, bone above the black of her arm – and blood seeped into the darker red of her dress. Claire gasped, panting with the effort of staying still and screwing her eyes shut against the pain.

"Done," Peter said, but that was only license to move. A bright flash of nuclear heat shone and then just as quickly dissipated, past the red, painful haze of Claire's vision.

Claire clutched her right arm to her stomach, gasping as she curled up against the pain. She could feel the bone lengthening, and then jointing itself, muscling coiling around it, and skin reweaving. Every second was agony.

Peter's arms wound around her shoulders carefully, and Claire rested her head on his shoulder as she gritted her teeth through the finale throes of regrowth.

"Peter ... what you just did... thank you," she said, feeling raw. She drew back to look at him. "I wish–"

"Don't," he cut her off, eyes shuttered, "You know I can't. Using his power isn't the same as using yours."

It was then that Claire noticed he too was in his dress clothes from the party, now rumpled and seeming too loose for his body. He looked tired. Claire made a mental note to give Nathan an earful for not taking care of him.

"I wasn't going to say that," she snapped, "But now that you mention it... you know you could have _died_ today."

"Hey, I'm not the one who nearly got disintegrated! What were you _thinking_ , going in there without back up?"

"I was thinking," she pronounced, eyes narrowing coldly, "the same thing you have been thinking this whole time: 'lying to my partner while I endanger myself is the only way to finish this mission.'"

Peter looked like he'd been slapped. He stepped back from her, walking half way to the window – as if trying to shake off his thoughts – before turning suddenly, to reply, "Oh, is that it? It was revenge? I failed to share every detail of what being a miserable fuck up is like, so you thought you'd get back at me by _dying_?"

"I wanted this mission to be over."

The words hung between them, draining the fight from them both.

"Well. It is over. Good work," Peter said stiffly, and he turned to leave.

Anger crackled in Claire's veins at the sight and she stood to follow him, grabbing him by the arm. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I was going to go pack."

"No," Claire said. "We're not done!"

Hand already on the doorknob, Peter turned to glare furiously at her, hands spread as he shouted, "What else do you want, Claire?"

New hand fisting in his hair, Claire pulled his mouth down onto hers in a searing, desperate kiss. His mouth opened slick and hot against hers, and she groaned.

 _This_ was what she wanted.

Claire licked across his teeth demanding entrance, Peter willingly acceding with a groan. Her hands skimmed hotly over his body, wanting to touch him everywhere, to cross every line.

Peter moved his hand gently to her shoulder, breaking the kiss momentarily for breath. His legs tangled with hers as he pressed closer, and stumbled, Claire shoving his back against the half open door, closing it with a thud. The sound seemed loud in the empty room.

Peter gasped – half in pain – and his lips moved from hers to trail down her jaw as he shifted. Claire's hands worked up under his shirt, enjoying the feel of muscles tensing under her touch, before beginning to unbuckle his belt.

His hand skimmed up her leg, toying with the torn hem of her dress, slipping past it up and between her legs to find her already wet. Claire shuddered and closed her eyes, focused on his light touch on her clit.

Too soon, he drew his hand back, and Claire let out a throaty growl, shifting to pull his knee between her thighs. Grinding against it, she panted, "Bed?"

"God, yes."

Dizzy, she stepped back from him, shivering with unvarnished want as his hands parted from her skin. She held his heated gaze as she pulled the torn and battered silk of her dress over her head, leaving her bare but for her underwear.

Breathing heavily, Peter leaned against the door, eyes dark, erection clearly outlined by the fine cut of his trousers. He raised his hand to his mouth, eyes holding hers as he sucked on his wet fingers to taste her.

Responding to the challenge, Claire took him by the hand, pulling him away from the door. She led him over to the bed and pushed him lightly to sit, kneeling in front of him to divest him of his shoes and socks.

She glanced up to see him gripping the edge of the bed with both hands, pupils blown wide as he watched her.

"Shirt," she ordered.

Claire reached behind her back to unhook her bra and slipped it off as she watched his long fingers work the buttons on his shirt. Abruptly, Peter stopped and pulled her to him, hand cupping the back of Claire's head, capturing her in another wet kiss. Her bare breasts pressed against his chest, and she moaned at the contact.

"I love you," he said thickly, between kisses.

"If you loved me," Claire started, pushing him to lay flat as she straddled him, "you would take off your shirt."

Ignoring her, Peter struggled to sit, moving Claire firmly onto his lap as he bent to caress her hardening nipples.

"You do it," he mumbled, planting teasing bites on her flesh, soothing them with licks and kisses.

Claire gasped at the sharp pleasure of his teeth. She grabbed clumsily at his shirt, finally getting the last buttons undone and pushing it from his shoulders to rake her fingernails over his bare flesh, marking him. He pulled at the loose sleeve, one arm over his head, unbalancing them both and spilling them backward onto the bed as he tossed the shirt to the floor, uncaring about where it landed

Claire pressed the length of her body against his, moaning at the feeling of flesh sliding against flesh, arching up to bite at his neck before claiming his mouth once more. Both their hands worked, together this time, to quickly strip him of his pants.

His fingers hooked into the waistband of her underwear, and Claire let out a sigh against Peter's lips. Eyes closed, she nodded slightly into the curve of his neck, raising up to let him remove them. Smiling, she kissed his jaw, and pulled herself upright once more.

A predatory smile curved Claire's lips as she looked at Peter. Flushed and at her mercy, panting beneath her, red marks on his neck from her teeth and cock hard in her hand, Peter made a pretty picture. She ran her thumb over the tip of his cock, watching him arch in pleasure.

"Wait, Claire," Peter said, pulling himself up to sit. "Could you just..." He picked her up, maneuvering his knees under her.

"Better leverage," he explained at her questioning glance.

Nodding with a quick huff of breath, Claire beckoned him to get on with it, before getting impatient. Claire growled, taking charge, firmly wrapping her fingers around Peter’s cock, guiding him into herself, lowering herself in one breathy moan of pleasure to settle once more against his hips.

"Fuck!" she swore, dropping her flushed head onto his shoulder as she felt him enter her, the thick head of his cock slowly stretching her. His fingers pushed into her sweaty hair, pulling her back to look at him, eyes dark on hers as his other hand slid between her legs to gently touch her clit.

Eyelids fluttering, Claire bit back a groan, and began to move, rocking her hips hard against Peter's. He thrust up into her, matching her pace, his hand on her clit a counter point that undermined her rhythm, distracting her, bringing her close.

She opened one eye in an attempt to glare at him, panting.

"Stop that," she ordered, wanting to hold onto the sensation of him in her as the first waves of orgasm swept over her. Feeling her muscles tighten around him, Peter groaned – but Claire could feel the smirk in the open mouthed kisses he pressed to her neck.

Gasping as the world swam back into focus, Claire grasped Peter's sweat slicked shoulders, hard, grinding her hips against his, digging her small round nails into his back to keep her grip. Skin still quivering, she could feel the rapid build up wind tighter with each thrust, snapping suddenly to push her into another orgasm. She felt that same tension ready to burst in Peter, his movements becoming jerky under her own.

Peter came with a muffled groan against her neck that became an appreciative brush of his lips as he rested against her.

Opening her eyes fully, Claire asked breathlessly, "Good?"

Cupping her face in both hands, Peter kissed her thoroughly.

"Very."

"Good," she sighed.

Claire flopped backwards and crawled her way up the length of the bed, stifling a yawn. Peter joined her, wrapping a sticky arm loosely around her waist. His hand toyed with hers, ring startling against her still cooling flesh.

"Guess I should put that back on," she mumbled.

Peter stroked his hand down her back, smiling against her hair line. "Put what back on?"

"Our marriage."


	11. Chapter 11

A warm, large hand skimmed up Claire's arm – still feeling fresh and strange in half sleep. Fingers tangled with hers, pulling slightly to raise her hand to her chest, and she awoke fully.

Peter, spooned behind her, examined her left hand, kissing her ring finger before asking, "Where are your rings?"

The sheet was bunched down around their waists, a cool sea breeze wafting in from the open windows, but the comfortable heat of Peter was a breaker to the wind. Claire blinked, adjusting to the bright yellow light streaming into the room, adjusting to the pleasant shift of bare skin on skin.

"Downstairs," Claire said through a yawn.

He shook her hand back and forth gently, chin on her shoulder, reply tickling her ear, "I looked. I didn't see them anywhere."

Claire pulled his hand away from his, putting it on her forehead as she turned to lay on her back. Peter remained propped over her, sunlight limning him in a soft glow. The white curtains fluttered beyond him, and it was just too perfect.

Embarrassed, Claire closed her eyes, saying, "I... uh, I was a little mad. I threw them. I don't know where they fell."

Peter butted his head lightly against hers, grinning. "Then you'll just have to go look for them. Heirlooms don't come cheap, you know."

"I know," she said, opening her eyes once more. She raised her hand to card through his long hair – stopping short when she caught sight of her hand, still bloody and dirty from the fight with Fusor. She groaned, "God, I'm disgusting. I need a shower."

She made no move toward getting up, feeling languorous and stretched from the exertions – sex and violence both – of the day before.

Peter brushed his lips over hers, sliding down to kiss her throat and then her collarbone. Claire could feel the hard line of his cock brush against her hip.

"You're not disgusting. You look like a warrior," he said reverently.

Peter seized the edge of the sheet around her waist, flinging it down to kick it away, leaving them both completely exposed in the light of morning. The sunbeams curved gracefully along his smooth muscles, highlighting his arms where they braced against the bed, and outlining the way his shoulders tapered to a narrow waist. Eyes tracing over him, Claire felt a hot twist low in her belly.

His fingertips grazed along her sides, and Claire shivered under his touch, laughter choking into a gasp. Claire brought a hand down to push his hair away from his face as Peter kissed a trail down her stomach, muscles twitching under the hot press of his mouth.

"We need to talk," she started, wondering if she wanted to distract him or just herself, "This hasn't changed anything."

Nipping sharply enough at her hip bone to make her jump, Peter contradicted her, "It changes everything."

"You're still mortal. And crazy. And you're still the scariest manipulator I've ever met."

Peter tilted back to give her a sardonic look, hands on her hips, chin propped low on her stomach. So close to where she wanted him it ripped an involuntary, frustrated whine from Claire's throat.

Exhaling harshly, she gave in, "Second scariest, okay?"

Peter nodded, hair brushing against her navel as he resumed kissing her hip.

"We have to talk about trust, Peter," Claire panted, feeling like she was forgetting something.

"We will," Peter said, looking up to meet her gaze with firm assurance that felt like the faithful beat of her heart.

Feet dangling off the edge of the bed, Peter scooted down further and, hands warm on her, parted her thighs to settle between them. He licked a long stripe up her inner thigh, toward where her leg joined her hip and Claire groaned low in her throat, sinking into the mattress. He bit at the tender flesh, sucking to create a bruise that quickly faded.

" _Peter!_ " Claire demanded, grabbing a handful of his hair to urge him upwards.

He smiled against her thigh, giving it another quick kiss before acceding to her wish. His tongue was a hot shock that thrust past her wet folds to press against her clit, and Claire felt the world drop out from under her.

Peter swirled his tongue, hand kneading into the quivering muscles of a thigh to keep her steady as he teased her toward orgasm. Claire arched her back, straining into his lips and tongue. With sudden sharpness, he pinned her hips to the mattress and sucked strongly on her clit, sending waves of pleasure over Claire as she cried out.

Unfocused, Claire felt Peter drift back up her, covering her tuned and roused body with his own heat. Hand still clenched in his hair, she pulled him to her, licking across his wet lips before kissing him deeply.

"God, Claire," he groaned roughly as he pulled back from her. Licking again at the corner of his mouth, Claire hooked a leg around his hip, rocking upward to press her body flush against his. Bracing one hand above her head, Peter slid into her in one smooth motion.

Peter rolled his hips, ducked his head to kiss Claire through a smile, while her hands played lightly over his back, eyes closing in rapture against the morning's brightness. It was different from the night before, the edge blunted, desperation sated, and it was _good_.

 

 

 

Traffic had sucked.

The New York summer air was even more brutally smoggy than usual.

And she was fairly sure she still had blood under her fingernails because two people in one shower didn't really lead to any kind of cleanliness.

 _In conclusion_ , Claire thought, swiveling on her lab stool, _today is_ awesome.

Claire hummed softly to herself as she added the finishing touches to the mermaid she was sketching onto the header of Mohinder's monthly budget report. She'd been late getting in, as well, enduring a ten minute lecture from Mohinder on top of it all when the harried geneticist realized that she had forgotten the coffee. Claire wondered briefly if, perhaps, the situation with Molly's guardianship was no longer as secret as Mohinder and Matt had hoped, but dismissed the worry. Their family was their business.

"Claire," came Mohinder's voice, cutting into her reverie, "am I to presume that you have taken it upon yourself to seek my death – not through violence or intrigue, but through an oblique bureaucratic plot to bury me in paperwork?"

Eyes crossing as she followed his circuitous question, Claire asked, "Huh?"

Mohinder raised an eyebrow and gestured to her doodle. "That's this month. I've yet to hand it in, and I'd prefer to avoid the interrogation from Bob that will result from giving it to him with your... embellishments."

"Oh. Right. Sorry!" Claire chirped. She pushed the report over to Mohinder, where he picked it up disdainfully between finger and thumb before sighing, turning to his computer to reprint the report.

"Is there anything I can do?" Claire asked, already sliding from her stool to go rearrange slides, the typical duty that fell to her when Mohinder could think of no other busy work to occupy her. A cut of the skyline dappled shadows across the mural of Peter's explosion, and Claire skipped from sunny patch to sunny patch, dodging the shadows, as she made her way across the lab.

On the edge of her vision, she saw Mohinder raise an eyebrow at Maya, and saw the other woman suppress a smile in response.

Shaking his head, Mohinder said, "While you're over there, why don't you bring over the X-616 samples?"

Nodding, Claire let her fingers walk nimbly across the rack of slides, settling on the correct box and extracting it. Twirling on her heel, she met Maya's surprised laugh with a grin and walk over to Mohinder to proffer the samples.

"It looks like you ... what is the English ... woke up in the right bed today, Claire," Maya said.

Claire laughed and Mohinder glanced up, an odd look on his face. He turned on his stool and tilted his head as he examined Claire, even as she corrected Maya cheerfully, "The right _side_ of the bed."

"Is that so?" he murmured, almost to himself. Something about his tone unsettled Claire, but not enough to jar her from her fog of good spirits.

"Is your mission going well?" Maya asked Claire.

Walking back to the slides, Claire began to reorganize them and tossed over her shoulder, "Yeah, actually. We caught our target yesterday! Guess that means it's just paperwork now."

"Really?" Maya asked. Claire turn to look at her, box of glass slides still open in her hand.

"Well... yeah. I set up a meet with her yesterday, Peter and I took her down, and now I guess we're done, except for a debriefing."

"Oh, I did not know. I had heard your mission was longer than simply Fusor."

Claire frowned, on planet Earth once more, "Who told you that?"

"It was Elle, but I don't think –"

"She'd have any reason to lie? Aside from being _Elle_. Nah, she doesn't know what she's talking about," Claire said flippantly, trying to ignore the sudden gnawing in her stomach.

Despite her words, she couldn't think of a single time that Elle had been wrong about the Company. Elle knew it better than she knew her own broken mind, and if she said there was more to the mission – maybe even the same more Claire had worried about herself – then Claire certainly wasn't fool enough to ignore her.

While she pondered, Maya wandered over to flirt with Mohinder, bringing a fond smile to Claire's face. Mohinder leaned over, stroking her hair behind her ear and saying something that Claire knew was a joke from the tone, even though she didn't pay attention to the words.

In a moment, she wished she had, seeing Maya suddenly push Mohinder away. Claire frowned in concern, never having seen the pair fight before.

"Doctor Suresh! That is no thing to joke about. Peter is her uncle!"

Claire blinked once, and again, the sound of the words popping in her ears. Reality frayed around the edges. The box of slides drafted slowly from Claire's nerveless hands, smashing into a glitter of a thousand shards on the floor.

"Oh God."

 

 

 

"May!" Claire yelled hoarsely, pounding on the door with all her strength.

Her eyes felt itchy with unshed tears, jaw tired from clenching with restrained emotion as she denied the uncoiling horror that forced involuntary tremors over her whole body.

"May!" she shouted again.

The door jerked open beneath her fist, nearly making Claire stumble into the girl behind it. Claire recognized her from an Orgo study group. She was pretty, but atrociously dressed, sequins and lace adorning every item of clothing she wore. Her hair was bleached brown, in a pseudo-punk cut of curled and teased locks.

"Claire?" she asked.

"Is May here?" Claire asked brusquely, brushing past the girl into the dimness of her former apartment. It was before noon still, but she had to wonder just how long May had actually been awake – or out of bed, to be more accurate.

"Um, yeah, come right in," said the girl Claire suddenly remembered as An Ping Zhao. Or Apple, for people who failed Chinese pronunciation. Sidling awkwardly back around Claire, she shut the door as she said, "I'll just go get her."

Claire paced restlessly in the living room, eyes picking over each of the personal touches, each of the signs that she'd lived there now missing – tossed into a bag and yet to be unpacked properly in Nassau. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, feeling cold without knowing why.

Rustling came from the other room, and a hushed, worried sounding conversation. Finally, May and Apple emerged, the former going immediately to embrace Claire. She responded mechanically, raising her arms to hold her friend at the same time May pulled back with a frown.

"Claire, sweetie, what's wrong?"

"I slept with him," Claire mumbled. She felt more than saw May and Apple exchange looks – May's worry going into overdrive, while Apple was merely confused.

"Who?" asked Apple.

Claire didn't know if it was reflex, or paranoia, that led her to say, "My husband."

"Congratulations?" offered Apple; May clapped a hand over her eyes.

May quickly dropped it, shaking her head at Apple to stifle further questions. She started to move to Claire again and then stopped, looking at her with an uncertain, fearful expression.

A long silence filled the shadowed room, and Claire felt a brittle edge of desperation creep up upon her. Tears welling for the first time since leaving the lab, Claire asked, "What do I do?"

"How did this–" May started, before cutting herself off as tears started to flow, "God, Claire."

"I don't know what to do," Claire said, arms wrapping tighter, hands on her elbows, fingernails raking nervously.

Something broke in May. She took a decisive step toward Claire, looking every bit like she was forcing herself – putting aside her worries, her judgments, and even a sliver of revulsion that peeked from behind her dark eyes.

Reaching out with a tempered touch, aware of possible resistance even if she wasn't open to allowing it, May gently peeled Claire's hands from their tight grips on her elbows and moved again to hug Claire. Tipping her head to rest of her friend's shoulder, Claire felt tears wetting the material of her shirt, even as they seemed to come from a distant body. Something not hers, and not here, because all she felt was cold.

Eventually, sensing that Claire wasn't just going to sob it out, May asked her, "Are you okay to drive?"

Claire nodded and then shook her head. "Why?"

"Never mind," May replied, breaking the embrace. Fussing with Claire's hair she continued, "We're just going to go down to the pharmacy on the corner, and then we're going to _talk_."

Taking Claire by the hand, May said a quick goodbye to Apple, who at the same time tried to exhort a promise for an explanation and Claire was comforted to see May hastily exit the apartment rather than give one. She allowed herself to be silently trooped down the stairs, and out onto the New York side walk, where she felt the heat of the day try and fail to penetrate the cold that enveloped her.

May took her down a few familiar store fronts, pulling and prodding when necessary, and then left her near the entrance inside the pharmacy while she left to make purchases, returning after an amount of time Claire didn't bother to count.

Claire swallowed the pills and, sunglasses covering her eyes, water bottle clutched in one hand, she felt like nothing so much as a girl being guided through her first hangover. Or what she imagined that would feel like, anyway, since she didn't get hangovers.

The whole time, May was a careful, measured distance from her, watching with dark eyes that occasionally darted furtively around the pharmacy – expecting judgment from strangers and drawing shivers from Claire herself.

 _I can't do this_ , she thought. _It's stupid. I can't talk about this._

Abruptly, she set her water down on a nearby shelf and turned to leave, not caring if May followed but wishing her power was to disappear. Her car was parked down the street, and she almost ran to get into it, closing the door with an explosive sigh and resting her arms on the wheel as she tried to breathe.

She heard the door open and close on the other side.

"Yeah, okay, you're not getting out of this," said May, sweeping aside her long, dark hair as the sudden motion of jumping into the car made it fall into her eyes. Some presence of mind made Claire turn the car battery on and she hit the button to close the top, listening balefully as the machines whirred, counting out how long until she had to start talking.

"You don't want to hear this," she said.

A sharp, hysterical laugh burst from May. "You _think_?"

Claire looked up at May, who carefully reached out to remove Claire's sunglasses, forcing a smile as she rationalized, "But, hey, I don't really want to hear about sex with guys at the best of times, and you _need_ to talk about it, and you're my girl. So I'm here. Okay?"

Claire nodded shakily, relaxing a fraction and waited for words to come to her. Finally, she gave up, saying in frustration, "I don't know where to start."

"The beginning?" May suggested.

Claire's mouth twisted into an ironic moue, "What, at Homecoming?"

"Um, how about a more recent beginning? Just... _how_ did this happen? I mean, I made a lot of jokes," a panicked look overtook May's pretty features, "Was it _me_? Did I give you the idea?"

Claire choked on a sound that was half laugh, half sob as she replied, "No, May. It was all us."

"Okay, good, cool. I mean, not cool that you... _anyway_. How did this happen?"

Claire blew out a breath, looking away. "We just forgot."

"Forgot?!" May yelped. "Guide me to how that makes the slightest bit of sense, 'cause I'm pretty sure I always remember who I'm related to."

" _I don't know!_ " Claire cried out. "It was just with the mission, and acting married all the time because we never knew if Fusor was watching us or not, and you don't understand how much I've _missed_ him, May."

"Because of all the," May made a series of hand gestures universally acknowledged as portraying 'crazy powers stuff', "things that happened?"

"He's not using my power. So, he's going to die, you know," Claire said, changing courses.

May shook her head, opening her mouth to ask just what that had to do with anything before shutting it, light of understanding dawning in her eyes.

"And you're not going to."

"I just, "Claire started, emotion thickening her voice, "I always thought we had _forever_. We'd figure it out, or get over it, or _something_ and we didn't have to do it now."

"Claire, you don't have to do it now! You're nineteen. We're still in college – just at the beginning even,. And it's not like Peter's that old! Thirty is the new twenty, and all. It's not like he nearly dies that often..." May trailed off weakly.

"Cat's kind of out of the bag, May."

"Well... what about the Haitian?" she asked hopefully.

"Brain damage, May? Really?"

"Oh, right. It'll heal, won't it? Well, maybe it'll stick if you just try very hard not to think about Peter!"

"Uh, no. Pretty sure that won't work. Besides, I doubt Angela would be on board with me calling him up to..." Claire trailed off, starting off into the distance as things clicked into place.

"What?"

"Elle said our mission wasn't over. Even after we caught Fusor," Claire said slowly. Traffic outside the car lurched, reminding her of the world, regrounding her as she began to feel anger burn. Her hand found the key one more, and with a glare, she rolled the engine over.

"You jumped the track again, sweetie. What does Elle have to do with this?"

"Nothing. She's just crazy enough to know that Fusor was never the mission."

Mental breakdowns could wait. Claire needed answers.


	12. Chapter 12

Claire stared resolutely at the changing numbers above the shining metal door of the elevator on her way up to the executive office of the Kirby Plaza office. Memories of how she and Peter had flirted – yes, she could acknowledge that now – in this very same elevator tugged temptingly at her mind, promising a cozy relief to the sickness that knotted her stomach, the grim determination that clenched her hand until her bones creaked.

The elevator dinged, releasing her, and she walked past Angela's assistant without him even looking up from the day planner he was writing in. For a moment, Claire wished he would protest, call security, do something to throw this into proper dramatic relief. She wasn't sure if she wanted someone to stop her, or just someone to fight.

Barging through the double doors so they slammed against the wall, Claire was displeased to see Angela didn't so much as flinch. She merely turned a page on a document she was reading at her desk, raising one hand to gesture carelessly toward a couch in the receiving area.

"One moment, Claire. This is a pressing matter," Angela said.

Her words, the dismissiveness that angered Claire so frequently, slid off her back with an easiness that Claire was not accustomed to. Perhaps mind games with Peter had been a good refresher, preparing her for how to handle her grandmother.

Claire continued to stand before Angela's desk, taking in every minute movement of her pen, each sigh and disgruntled frown that punctuated her work until she flipped the file shut and called for her assistant to send it down to the research division.

Turning her gaze to Claire only once he was out of the room, Angela examined her dispassionately, clearly considering angles of attack. Claire returned the stare, her mouth a hard line.

Finally, Angela stood, laying down her pen with a dull click against the hard wood of her desk. She made her way to an alcove in the wall filled with bottles and fine glassware, pouring herself a drink as she asked over her shoulder, "Anything for you, dear?"

"No."

Claire's eyes followed Angela as she walked back to the couch, smoothing her skirt as she settled comfortably into the cushions.

"Why have you come here, Claire?"

"Thought I'd give you a mission update," Claire said sarcastically.

"There's more? I thought Fusor was already well in hand," replied Angela, expression studied.

Claire hesitated momentarily, and then decided to open with a lesser gambit, "I just thought you might know something interesting she said while kicking me in the face. She said she knew you."

"We have met before. We tried to help comfort her after her mother's untimely demise."

"At your agents' hands," Claire added, and Angela inclined her head. "But, that made me wonder. Why would you send two undercover agents after a person who knew all along their story was faked? The case was never about Fusor, was it?"

"Of course not, dear. That's hardly news." Angela replied, patting the soft leather of her couch as an invitation for Claire to sit. She ignored it, pacing instead while her grandmother watched shrewdly. "You know the threat that Bob made against my son. After everything he's been through, I just wanted to see him succeed, like any mother would."

"No! Don't say it was about Peter! I know it wasn't about him, you never planned to lock him back up – you'd never give up his power. It was about _us_ – me and him!"

Angela said nothing, coolly rotating her wedding band around her finger with her thumb.

"The marriage license is real, isn't it? That's why the mission isn't over."

It was Elle's comment – that the Company never faked anything – that had gotten Claire thinking. As insane as it was, as much as it flew in the face of logic and the law, she knew there was something there. And it was only now, speaking the words, that she knew how true they were. The was no connection, on paper, between the Claire Gordon who died after Nathan Petrelli left her and her mother, and Claire Bennet. Nothing at all.

There was a grim smile in Angela's sharp eyes as she nodded. "You've always been a clever girl, Claire. I'm glad you've finally taken your rightful place in the family. Yes, the Petrelli name still means something with the judges of New York City. It wasn't difficult to find one who would tailor procedure to our special needs."

"Then end it! Use our name and _fix it_!" Claire exclaimed desperately, walking close to Angela with the intent of shaking a reprieve from her.

"That's not really what you want, Claire." A denial was on her lips, but Angela continued ruthlessly before she could voice the lie, "In any case, I don't think you want to endanger Doctor Suresh or Miss Herrera any further, do you?"

"What do you mean?" Claire asked feeling a chill sweep over her. She distantly recalled something Nathan had said to her the week before, about her adoption.

"Do you want us to throw away our tenuous truce with the government, just so you can unfile a piece of paper? They can't know how much power we have, Claire. The minute they do, they will declare war, and none of our kind will be safe."

"Did you... you tipped the government off, didn't you?"

Angela let out a startled laugh. "I don't plan quite _that_ far ahead. And despite what all teenagers think, not everything is about you. It was merely convenient."

"Convenient," Claire repeated, shell shocked. "Why? Why would you do this? How does it benefit you?"

"It benefits _all of us_ , Claire. As a species. We've arranged such things before – just ask your mother."

"Meredith?" Claire whispered, stopping her pacing. She felt queasy, knees weak beneath her.

"Hmm? Yes, her too, I suppose. But Sandra Bennet certainly knows a thing or two about breeding, as well you know, and she could enlighten you about the more theoretical aspects if you wish."

"You honestly just said that. You're breeding us."

"To be fair, I did think it would take more than one mission for you to come this far." Claire shivered. Once, she would have wondered just how much Angela knew, and what her sources were. The mystery made her grandmother all the more frightening. Realizing that Angela's power meant she could personally pry into her family's lives at any time she wished – that made her terrifying. "I clearly over estimated your restraint."

Claire's jaw ached as she bit out, "I don't know why I forgot for a moment that _you're_ the real bad guy."

Angela raised an eyebrow at that and stood, setting down her untouched drink before taking two quick paces over to Claire. She slapped her sharply across the face.

Claire gasped, eyes suddenly wet as she brought one hand up to her stinging cheek in shock.

"The only thing I have done, Claire," Angela pronounced, "is give you the man you love."

Claire shook her head blindly, squeezing her eyes shut against tears as anger fled her. All that was left was self-loathing and a deep, unsettling feeling that it would pass quicker than could ever be called right.

"It's _sick_ ," she cried.

"Oh, Claire," Angela murmured, taking her granddaughter into her arms. Claire went limply, desperate for someone to cling to, wanting to cry out this betrayal, this fundamental shift in her reality on a loved one's shoulder. Angela would have to do.

Angela stroked gentle fingers through her hair, trying to hush her sobs. "Shhh."

"Why did you do this to us?" Claire sobbed.

"Because I love you. I want you to be happy. Isn't that what family is for?"

Claire hiccuped a laugh against her grandmother's shoulder. "Pretty sure family isn't for _fucking_."

Angela patted her absently on the back, apparently finished feeling maternal even if Claire wasn't finished feeling despair. Pulling a handkerchief from her jacket pocket, she wiped briskly at her granddaughter's tears.

"Royalty is always allowed its foibles, Claire."

Meeting her grandmother's cold eyes, Claire settled somehow inside. They didn't even live in the same world. The way Angela saw it would never be how Claire saw it, and she was suddenly, urgently grateful for that.

Frozen stillness growing between them, it was not hard for Claire to extricate herself.

Angela thought her life was a game – Claire had known that for some time, but it was a brutally crushing blow to realize it was a game Angela had _won_.

Claire slumped against the elevator wall as she watched the numbers tick downward this time, dejectedly shoving hands into designer jeans pockets. Her right hand bumped up against her phone, and she had to squeeze it to the side to fit her hand in it.

 _Wait._ Claire stood up straight, an idea occurring to her. As much as her life was game to her grandmother, lesser beings were mere pawns barely worthy of her notice. And there was one thing she could do, at least, to make Angela's victory bittersweet.

 

 

 

"So... how'd it go?" May asked as Claire slid back into the driver's seat of the MG.

"My grandmother is a sociopath."

"Yeah, I think we already knew that. I mean how are you coping? You're the one who just went to confront her grandmother over using her in a crazy incestuous marriage scheme!"

"Turns out it's a crazy incestuous eugenics world domination scheme," Claire corrected flatly.

"Well, yeah, of course. Because that's what you do," May said, blinking.

"And it's not new. Angela brought up Meredith!" Claire exclaimed, emotion rising her voice – real emotion that felt like her own, unyielding but sane and predictable. "Oh, God, she's probably like Nathan's secret half-sister or something. I'm such a freak!"

May stared at Claire for a long moment, long enough for Claire to calm down and begin to fidget.

"Sweetie.... we knew that, too. The freak part, not the unbranching family tree thing. I mean, you cut off your own arm and then regrew it yesterday. That's pretty freaky."

Claire looked down, flexing her left hand, feeling its disconcerting lightness without her rings.

May scrunched her face in thought, and continued, "Do you really think Meredith is your aunt? 'Cause you showed me that picture that time, and I don't really think she's a Petrelli. Plus, exile to a trailer park is pretty harsh, even for the Queen Bee of Evil."

Claire hadn't really expected to have to defend that theory. Feeling slightly stupid, she replied, "Yeah. I guess. But Angela is totally trying to get me and Peter to have genetically mutated babies!"

"God, your family is fucked up."

"That's not comforting, _May_!"

May shrugged lightly in return, but a desperate kind of uncertainty plagued her eyes as she said, "Claire, I'm trying here. I don't know what to say. This is all scary is as hell, and I can't imagine how much worse it is for you. Are you okay? Tell me what I can do to help."

"No, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have...," Claire trailed off, slumping into her seat. Closing her eyes, she tried again, "I can't expect you to handle my insane life when I can't do it."

"Seems like you're doing okay to me," May offered, and Claire opened her eyes to look at her sardonically. She shrugged a little, saying, "Aside from the sleeping with your uncle thing."

"Thanks," Claire said.

"No, I mean it! You said your bad girl target whatever knew about you guys all along. Angela totally screwed you guys, setting you up to fail, and it didn't even make a dent on you! You totally kicked her ass."

Feeling flattered even as that long time splinter of self doubt she had about how she used her abilities worked itself free, Claire blushed. "Well, that's not quite true. Fusor dented my arm pretty good."

May let out a puff of air that lifted her bangs off her face, getting into her reassurances with manic enthusiasm, "But even then, you _cut it off_ to fix it! That's hardcore!"

"It kind of was," Claire agreed.

A pleasant silence drifted between them. Claire watched the traffic ebb and surge, thinking of the good that could be salvaged from the mission – Peter's recovery, her own satisfaction, Grace's rescue, Fusor's capture – while May watched her expectantly.

Eventually, May prompted, "What are you going to do?"

"Talk to Peter, I guess."

"Or!" May began, "Here's a suggestion: _don't_. Send him a postcard, and never see him again!"

Blonde hair flew as Claire shook her head.

"No. I can't do that. He deserves to hear what's really going on from me. And then he can decide to do what he wants with her. And I–" Claire cut herself off.

"You what?"

"I want my rings back," Claire admitted.

May covered her face with both hands, letting out a distressed groan. "Do you even know how wrong that is, girl?"

Claire crossed her arms, mouth pressed into a a thin line. There was no good answer to that question. Yes, it was wrong. Yes, going back was a bad idea. And no, she didn't have it under control.

But that didn't change what she wanted.

"Okay!" May said, clapping her hands. "Here's the plan. Step one: we go together to the beach house, grab all your stuff, and move you back into the apartment." Claire's stomach flipped at the idea. "I give Peter a death stare until he's backed into a corner. Step two: buckets of therapy."

"Oh, you know of a psychiatrist who wouldn't run screaming from the room?"

"...no. But the rest is a good plan!"

"So how do you think Apple would feel about me moving back?" Claire asked, trying to cover the flicker of hope that this would burst May's bubble.

May waved a hand flippantly. "Oh, she wouldn't care. It's not like she moved in, you know."

Claire forced a smile.

"Then it's a plan."

May smiled back brightly for a long beat, but her smile faded as her dark eyes found the falseness in Claire's expression.

"It's not, is it?" she asked quietly.

Claire looked away. "I need to talk to him alone, May."

"But!" May flailed helplessly for a moment, "If you do that, you'll end up doing the incest tango again!"

Claire was silently, merely holding her friend's gaze until May backed down with a sigh.

"I love you, you know. That's why I put up with this."

A pang of guilt gnawed at Claire's heart, and she softened, saying, "I love you, too, like a sister."

May tossed her hair, working the handle to step out of the car, saying as she exited,"Just so you know, coming from you, that takes on a _whole_ different meaning."

Claire chuckled, glad for May's jokes for once, even if the honesty in them was too harsh to confront directly. At least it gave her something to divert her attention, to allow her to pretend her hands weren't shaking and that she was not on the verge of an irrevocable decision.

And then Claire was alone, feeling a chill once more, skating along her skin even as her heart raced feverishly.

Trying to suppress her trembling, she kept a white knuckle grip on the wheel as she steered her way out of town. Claire stopped short several times, growling at other drivers and yelling a few apologies out the window as her pedal foot tapped involuntarily with nerves.

The approach to the beach house was odd, feeling to Claire both like the first time she had ever seen those roads and like they were ingrained in her memory since childhood. She parked on the drive with a jerk, eyes wide and unseeing as she unbuckled, getting out of the car on unsteady legs.

Claire's pulse pounded in her ears as she opened the door. Something in her expected Peter to jump out from behind it, maybe to sweep her up in his arms like on that first day, making her forget all the violent emotion of the day.

But Peter was nowhere to be found. Sudden panic gripped Claire. Was he even home? Was she going to have to _wait_ for him, rings and unpacked baggage hanging over her head, pretending she hadn't already chosen?

Eventually, the sound of kitchenware clattering filtered through to her, and Claire let out a shaky exhalation of relief, making her way to the back of the house and the kitchen. There she found Peter, monitoring a boiling pot of pasta, sharp scent of garlic already in the air.

"Hey," she greeted weakly, hovering at the far side of the room.

Peter glanced up, soft smile on his face, "Hey. Thought that was you. Lunch should be done in a few."

"Why are you cooking?"

Peter thumbed the edge of a red coated spoon, raising it to his mouth to taste it. "Mohinder called me."

"Right," she croaked. "And food was the obvious solution."

"Hey, I'm Italian," he said, grinning, lightness of his tone easing Claire's nerves. "It always is."

Cautiously, she stepped into the kitchen, keeping her back to the island, her eyes on him the whole time.

"Why didn't you come for me?" she asked.

Very aware of the distance between them, aware that Claire was not ready to cross it yet, Peter met her eyes sincerely. "That wasn't the right thing to do. I trust you, and you don't need me chasing you all over the city. I knew I should be here for you when you got home."

It made sense, a deeper, more satisfying kind of sense than what the childish side of Claire still half wanted – her hero rushing to her side, banishing all doubts, shielding her from Angela's harsh reality. It made sense that Claire knew she would not regret believing years from now.

"Who did you go to?" Peter asked.

"May. And then Angela."

Peter's expression darkened, hazel eyes glinting. "What did Mom say?"

Claire smirked bitterly, replying, "What do you think? The mission wasn't about Fusor, the marriage license is real, and we're supposed to produce a legion of super powered babies for her. Oh, and she knew Fusor would recognize us and didn't bother telling us, just for fun."

Peter nodded, looking mad but unsurprised. Claire felt a snap of anger at that.

"You knew all along, didn't you?" she accused. Memories of that day filtered back to her: Peter's hesitance, Angela whispering in his ear. She'd been blind not to see it before. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't _know_. I... suspected," Peter said, shrugging helplessly.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Claire asked.

Peter's jaw clenched, guilt written on his features.

"I just couldn't push you away," he admitted.

"How would that push me away?"

At some point, Claire's caution had disappeared, and she had stepped fully into the kitchen, into Peter's personal space.

"How wouldn't it?" Peter asked, for the first time in a week looking like the exhausted, vulnerable shell of himself he'd been since his breakdown. It had been so easy to forget the hell they had both been through.

Claire felt her resolve weakening, but had to ask. She couldn't let herself wonder about this.

"I need you to tell me the truth here, Peter. Was this a plan? Were you... were you trying to get me into bed?"

"No! That's not what I care about. It was because I missed you! Okay?" Peter snapped.

"I was here," Claire said, trying to hold on to her anger. "You were just too much of a mess to do anything about it."

It was a low blow. One Claire felt ashamed of as soon as she said it, knowing her anger was forced, hiding her fear. But the beautiful thing about Peter was that he knew that before even she did.

Peter tiled his head back, hand on his neck as he looked to the ceiling. "I don't want to fight, Claire."

 _Neither do I_ , Claire thought, unsure if she was pressing this because it was important or just to dodge the issue.

"You said we'd talk about trust," Claire said, feeling like a fool even as the words came out of her mouth. After all they'd been through during the mission, after he let her work this out for herself today, what greater demonstration of trust did she really need from him?

"Okay," Peter said. "We'll talk."

He raised an eyebrow at her expectantly.

Off balance, she fumbled for words, "Well ... if you want me to trust you, you have to trust me first!"

"I'm working on it," Peter said equably, taking a step closer to her. It was very hard to argue that point, even knowing he hadn't mentioned the probable genuineness of their marriage license. She hadn't done anything because of a stupid piece of paper – and she most definitely hadn't done it because she thought it was _fake_.

And his behavior was already changing; she had noted it herself.

"And I was talking with May – therapy seriously may not be a bad idea here!"

He looked at her askance. "Claire, I'm in love with you. I've _been_ through therapy, and I can tell you right now that no therapy in the world is going to change how I feel about you."

"We should still try," Claire maintained, voice wavering.

"We can, if you really want, but right now I'm not seeing the problem. We're good for each other. I want to take this chance with you, Claire. It's not like we have forever."

Why did he have to use that word? Hearing her own words echoed back to her, the reminder both of his mortality and how enmeshed their hearts and thoughts were at all times crumbled her resistance even further, until she could only sputter her final protest, "You're acting like we're the same as any other couple. We're related!"

"Claire... I've been afraid of myself, of my powers, of what I want for such a long time that I barely even remembered what it felt like to look in the mirror without flinching. I'm tired of it. I just don't care anymore – this has never felt wrong to me."

"It _should_."

"But it doesn't," he said simply, stepping to her.

Claire's throat tightened at his pronouncement. No matter how complicated Angela wanted to make things, it was actually that simple. And whatever else Angela had done, she had shown Claire that if she truly wanted this, she could have it.

"Angela is crazy. We have to do something–" Peter's mouth covered hers, cutting her off with a kiss she couldn't help but pour all her longing into, barely remembering that it hadn't even been a day since she'd last kissed him.

The moment was lingering and sweet. When they parted, Claire buried her head in his shoulder, breathing in his scent. _We're really doing this_ , she thought.

"I missed you, too," Claire confessed.

Peter turned his head slightly, kissing her temple. "Your rings are on the table. I tracked them down earlier."

The image of Peter, searching every inch of the first floor on his hands and knees brought a smile to Claire's face. It slipped away, however, as she remembered her train of thought from before the kiss. Pulling back from Peter was impossible, so she hopped up onto the edge of the island counter, Peter's hands on her hips.

Clearly pleased with the positioning, he leaned in again, stopping short when Claire said abruptly, "I called Nathan."

Peter was struck by a sudden fit of coughing. " _Why?_ " he gasped out.

"Angela was holding a threat over us," Claire said, thumping him absently on the back as his coughs subsided. "Our compliance with her plan for us, or deportation for Mohinder and Maya."

Peter winced, but his expression was resigned. He did know his mother, as he'd said.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I wish she would leave other people out of this."

"At least her world domination plot doesn't involve the deaths of millions this time," Claire said.

"I think that sentence may say more about you than her," Peter replied. "Anyway, what does Nathan have to do with this?"

Triumphant smirk on her face, she said, "He's removing Angela's leverage right now. He's got the Company clearance, so he's moving Fusor."

Realization dawned in Peter's eyes, "He's trading her to the government in exchange for the INS forgetting Mohinder and Maya exist, isn't he?"

Claire nodded gleefully.

 

 

 

"You're amazing, you know that?" Peter said, cupping her face to kiss her wide smile quickly. "But... from now on, can you not mention Nathan while we're making out? It's a bit of a mood killer."

Claire schooled her expression into solemn innocence, drawing an X over her heart. Peter leaned in again, and Claire couldn't resist one more jab, "So that means talking about how much my dad is going to kill you when he finds out is off limits, too?"

"Hey! I still have a lot of powers! I could survive him!"

"Uh huh, Peter. I'm sure you could."

Peter pouted, and she kissed him lightly on the jut of his lip, teasing. He seized her suddenly, pulling her into the deeper kiss he'd been attempting.

Breathing heavily, cheek pressed against his and eyes still closed, she said, "I want my rings."

Taking her left hand, Peter intertwined their fingers, pulling her down from the counter as he stepped back. The stove, Claire noticed, was off. Somewhere in all their discussions, Peter had realized he would get his way, that she would stay, and he had clicked it off with TK to save their meal. _Sneaky bastard_.

He led her over to sit at the table, rings shining on her place setting. Hovering over her shoulder, he asked into her ear, "Do you want me to put them on?"

Claire considered for a long moment, starting at the glint of gold and diamond that was now achingly familiar. A moment long enough that Peter prodded, "Do you want me to put them on?"

"No. I'll do it this time."

Her heart was loud in her ears, but her fingers steady as she slipped them on, feeling _right_ for the first time since she'd torn them off in anger. She felt Peter's left hand on her shoulder, and placed her own over it, clinking the metal together. His right hand stroked through her hair, cupping her jaw to turn her gently to look at her.

And they sealed it with a kiss.


End file.
